


Punks, Goths, and Jocks

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:42:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 46,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25609825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Arthur Kirkland is sick of all the nonsense around him, especially from that tool of a quarterback. Punk/High School AU. Language, suggestive themes (originally posted on FFnet by FMAvatard on 2012/06/03)
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Kudos: 14





	1. Shoulder Pads and Bright Red Hair

The ashes drifted away in the wind as Arthur Kirkland smashed a cigarette against the side of his high school. The package beside him in the grass was empty, save for one last stick… shit. He'd have to get his brother to buy him more.

"Kiku, you got a light?"

The Asian sitting across from him shook his head no, silent as ever. Arthur had always admired Kiku's sense of style...some sort of Eastern-gothic-punk that the Brit knew if he ever attempted himself, it would look ridiculous. Only his friend could pull it off. Visual...visual-some-Japanese-word. Fuck if he knew.

"Demitri?"

His other friend sat in a shadow the building cast off, curled up into a ball. His completely black attire was a norm, as was his pale skin and red contact lenses. Arthur listened to the teenager he considered an acquaintance, the voice clipped with a light Slavic accent.

"There is no light. All leads to darkness...you can ask countless times, for eternity, but light will never come..."

"...Right. Forgive me for asking."

Demitri had always been a bit of a downer.

This was their group. A Japanese shut-in who dressed like something out of a hardcore music video, a Romanian goth who never seemed to have anything to be happy about, and Arthur.

Arthur, the 'British kid' with bright-red hair, dark eyeliner, pale makeup, and jeans that were far tighter than they ought to be. Today, he sported a black tank-top that read 'Sex Pistols,' featuring an image of the band. He sighed, looking at the cigarette in between his fingers.

"...well shit. I left my lighter in my car."

Just then, a light chime sounded from the P.A. system. The odd group looked upward, save for Demitri. Arthur scoffed as an overly peppy voice echoed throughout the school.

"All students, please report to the gymnasium at this time! Spirit Week begins today! All students, please report to the gymnasium! Go Owls!"

The three got up. Skipping class was one thing (as they were now), but pep rallies were mandatory. Not like they actually gave a shit about their grades. Or much of anything. Arthur began ranting, popping some gum to mask the scent of smoke.

"Spirit Week. What a fuckin' joke. Who's actually proud to come from a place like this? Stupid little bitches and jocks, that's who. Won't grow up to be nothin' but dead-end...ugh..."

Kiku nodded, slipping his hands in his pockets as he overtook Arthur on his way to the gym. Demitri caught up, speaking alongside his British friend.

"Are we going to sit in the corner?"

"Of course we are, Dem, it's the darkest and least-crowded in the corner."

"...good. My twisted soul can delve deeper into the shadows."

"Christ, Dem, lighten up."

"What good is that? We're all just going to die anyway...doesn't matter how kind or hateful you are...it all ends the same..."

Arthur slowed, intentionally letting Demitri go further ahead and away. There was a reason the kid was merely an 'acquaintance' to the Brit, rather than a friend.

He entered the noisy gym, enjoying the stares. Girls whispering about how he was either frightening, a 'bad boy,' or hot. Some would even move to the other side of the bleachers in fear. The guys mostly called him out; freak. Fag. Stupid asshole. Anything, really. Arthur had heard it all, and frankly, if he gave a shit, then he wouldn't look the way he did.

He sat down in the corner, joining Demitri and Kiku. Damn, he should've remembered this was Spirit Week; Arthur could have planned some sort of prank. It was always excellent fun to steal the cheerleaders duffel bags, cut holes in their bras, things like that. Or their best one yet had been the time Demitri had cut the lights. Ah, God, all those freaked out screams. That had been the best.

"Everybody! Put your hands together for the Union Valley High Owls!"

And now all hell broke loose as the entire student body save for three individuals exploded into cheers, chanting 'Owls!' as the football came out from the locker rooms. Arthur rolled his eyes, starting to go off again.

"Look at 'em all, caught up in stupid shit like this. Don't they know there are more important things going on? Honestly, does every fuckin' thing in this country have to revolve around sports?"

"Lost souls in a sea of despair."

And a shake 'No' from Kiku.

The trio winced as the quarterback's name was called, eliciting the highest-pitched screeches from the girls and the most brutish roars from the boys.

Alfred F. Jones. Number 50.

"And they treat him like a fuckin' God. Why the fuck is he so special? 'Cause he can catch and throw and kick a ball? I bet the bastard's failing his classes just like us, and they still let him play, just 'cause its so important for the team. Asshole."

"Next up, everyone hoot for the Owlettes!"

And now came the aggravating hooting. Arthur screamed an obscenity as loud as he could, going completely unnoticed by it all. The cheerleaders came bouncing out, their perky smiles making up for their lack of perky breasts. Or breasts at all.

"Dumb sluts. How much you wanna bet they've all been shagged? Probably like it, too."

Arthur would also bet anything that Jones had fucked at least half of them. He wasn't bad looking, the Brit would at least give him that. His blonde hair was bright and groomed, except for a weird-ass cowlick on the front. The quarterback's blue eyes had a certain hue to them that Arthur wished he could find somewhere else so that could stop associating it with the jock. And that smile. Even here in the very back, darkest corners of the gymnasium, Jones' smile was visible.

Yes. Alfred probably had the little slags lined up begging for his dick, with looks like that.

"Arthur?"

Demitri spoke, taking Arthur out of his daze.

"W-what?"

The goth turned back to the crowd and floor, his expression and tone neutral.

"Normally I don't keep record of conversation, but this is the tenth time you've brought up Jones, and we're only two months into the year. There are other members of the team you can focus hatred upon, you know."

"...I know that...but he's the epicenter of it all. So...so hating him means I hate all of them!"

"...if you say so."

The goth stood up, making his way to the stairs.

"I'm going to go find a storage closet to bask in."

And the Romanian left, avoiding any physical contact, much like a shadow.

...God, that kid had problems.

"I'm blowin', too, Kiku. Fuck this, right?"

The Japanese teen shook his head. Right, right, he actually cared about his standards. Cutting class, yet making excellent marks through online study. Arthur wondered what would happen if his friend ever lost wifi.

"Kay. Later."

Arthur descended the stairs, hearing the hushed whispers about him amongst the screams for the team. He glanced down to the court, seeing number fifty wave to the crowd, flashing that grin to everyone. God, what a tool. Like American football was actually going to be useful later in life.

Alfred turned in the punk's direction, flashing a smile directly at Arthur. The Brit was taken aback by how suddenly this had happened and, in pure reflex, shot the jock the bird before leaving the gym in a flustered, angry state.


	2. Sucker Punches and Cigarettes

"That's bad for you, ya know."

"And why the fuck do you care?"

"I don't...I mean, what's your name?"

"...Arthur."

"Okay. Arthur, smoking is bad for you."

"...piss off! I don't need you telling me what to do!"

. . .

"Kirkland."

. . .

"Kirkland."

The stern voice brought Arthur out of his nap. The professor's voice, in the middle of class. As far as Arthur was concerned, he might as well have skipped. It had been that dream again...

Stupid...fucking...God, again? He hated that dream...

"Mr. Kirkland. Are you going to answer or aren't you?"

. . .

"Forty-seven?"

"Mr. Kirkland, this is Spanish."

...right. He'd slept through Arithmetic. Oh well. This country's measurements were fucking insane anyway. Arthur had learnt all he needed to in grade school.

The bell rang, an instant signal for every student in the room to gather their books and pens and leave as quickly as possible. Arthur was no different, sweeping his one pencil into his backpack and standing up, cracking his back. That had been a decent nap. Thank God for these longer classes.

"Mr. Kirkland, may I speak to you a moment?"

. . .

Fuck.

"Of course, Mr. Carriedo."

Arthur turned on a heel, wearing a sickly sweet smile that didn't look quite right on his pale face. He sat down in the front row, back straight, hands folded together, appearing to be an exceptional student. All he'd need was a shiny red apple to complete the ensemble.

The professor rubbed his temples, getting up to stand in front of the desk.

"Mr. Kirkland, I'm beginning to question why you even bother coming into school."

Arthur kept up the smile, gesturing his fingers outward and shrugging his shoulders.

"Better late than never."

"I'm being serious, Mr. Kirkland. I've spoken with your advisor; your grades are an absolute wreck. Do you want to repeat senior year? Don't you want to graduate with your peers?"

Arthur scoffed, leaning back as he was accustomed to.

"You're joking, right? I don't give a crap about my peers. Or this school. This place is-"

"It's exactly that kind of attitude that I'm growing quite sick of, Kirkland."

"Ooh, we've dropped the 'Mr.' Getting serious now."

The professor grit his teeth for a moment before calming down. Arthur smirked; losing it, are we now?

"...Mr. Kirkland. Until you are ready to be an active participant in this community, and stop with this rebel nonsense you've chosen to latch onto, you're unwelcome in this classroom. Do we understand each other?”

Arthur smirked harder. Well. Now it was Spanish, English, and Economics he'd been formally booted from. All he had left was Math and Science and the set would be complete. Now if he could just get that bastard Yao on a bad day, Math would be a shoe-in.

"Understood. Sir."

Arthur got up and left, holding back laughter at the mumbled Spanish ramblings behind him. Now, if the professor had taught them words like that, maybe he'd have paid more attention.

. . .

"Arthur? Is that you?"

A young woman's voice called through the small house the Brit had walked into. Christ, this had been a long day. The pep rally had him worn down. Why the middle of the day?

"Yes, Mum."

"How was school?"

"The usual."

"That's good."

The blonde poked her head out from the kitchen, wiping off a dish with a cloth. Her smile was gentle, small wrinkles creasing her eyes and lips. Suddenly the smile was gone, and her nose joined in wrinkling as she sniffed the air. With an exasperated sigh, she went to the bottom of the stairs.

"Colin! What have I told you about smoking in the house?"

She shook her head, smiling back at Arthur and ruffling his hair.

"I swear, those get stronger by the day, don't they?"

"Sure do...anyway...lotsa homework, you know how it is."

"Of course, dear."

Arthur quickly started up the stairs, avoiding anymore mentions of cigarettes.

"Arthur?"

...shit.

"Yes, Mum?"

Arthur turned, looking down to the tired woman.

"I love you, dear."

"Love you, too, Mum."

. . .

"The fuck do ya mean ya need more?"

"What part of that don't you get, dumbass?"

Arthur glared down at his older brother Colin. The college dropout was laying in bed (had he just woken up?), his rusty hair disheveled as all hell. He'd been living here for the past six months. Just when Arthur thought he'd left for good...

"Look...I ain't got no more money. Gotta wait for Mum's paycheck. Now get the fuck out."

Arthur huffed.

"For what? You're not doin' shit in here. How 'bout gettin' a job instead of bummin' off Mum for every damn thing like a deadbeat?"

Colin sprang up, grabbing Arthur by the collar and shoving him to the wall.

"Say that again, ya little shit."

"I'm sayin' at least Dad sends checks."

Colin clocked his younger brother, sending the punk down to the floor with a grunt.

"Fuck you, ya little-"

"Boys? Is everything alright? I heard a bang."

"Fine, Mum, don't worry."

Arthur answered their mother calmly, a hand on his jaw. Shit. That had been harder than usual. He picked himself up, glaring daggers at Colin as he opened the door to leave.

"Never mind. Those things are disgusting, anyway. Keep 'em."

"Good. 'Cause I'm sick o' getting 'em for ya. You smell like shit."

Arthur shut the door behind him, taking this moment of solitude to truly deal with the pain throbbing in his cheek. He darted to the bathroom, wetting a cloth and placing it on his face. He'd have to fix the makeup later. In fact, might as well just wash off all of today's foundati-ah, shit, that hurt like hell.

After washing up, the punk locked himself in his room, already feeling the withdrawal symptoms from the lack of nicotine kicking in.

...might as well sleep.

. . .

"Arthur. You look more crestfallen than usual. Did the dark ones speak to you last night as well?"

"...No, Dem...they didn't."

Tuesday, Arthur was wearing even more makeup than usual, mostly to cover the bruise on his face, among other reasons. Kiku sat beside him in the grass. The trio had decided to skip English, the one class they all had had before being ushered out. Except Kiku, of course.

"Christ, I haven't had a fag since yesterday...I'm losing my fuckin' mind. Do either of you-?"

...oh. Oh! He still had one left! Arthur jumped up, sprinting to the east end of the school where the parking lot was without so much as an explanation to his friends. His lighter, that's all he needed. One more, then he'd...he'd find a way. Somehow.

Arthur must've looked frantic, rummaging through his vehicle, mumbling and cursing to himself. Finally he found it, fumbling with the switch for a moment as well as the last stick between his fingers. In one inhale, Arthur Kirkland found total peace...Jesus, what a relief.

"Again? Dude, you're asking for lung cancer."

The Brit nearly dropped the precious cigarette, whirling around at the sound of another voice.

...Jones? The fuck? Why the hell was he here?

"Like you give a shit."

His eyes ran down the quarterback's body. Long, firm-looking legs, leading to a torso that he could easily discern as 'chiseled' through the teen's thin t-shirt. Broad shoulders with muscular biceps and triceps; no doubt from all the training the team did. Worthless prats. And of course his face. Those big blue eyes and perfect white teeth and tan skin, God, it made Arthur wanna just puke.

"Maybe I do give a shit."

"Ooh, someone said a swear. Look, what are you doing here? Don't you have weights to be lifting or some shit like that?"

Alfred shrugged, unlocking the car directly next to Arthur's; a Chevrolet GMC next to beat-up old Subaru.

"Forgot my Spanish book. You should really quit that. It smells awful, and it'll kill ya."

"And?"

"...and nothing. Just...ya know what, screw it. God, ya try to be nice..."

Alfred huffed and grabbed his book, locking the car and storming off. Arthur waved goodbye, wearing that same sick smile from yesterday's Spanish session.

"And it got you nowhere, didn't it?"

The Brit smirked, calming down as he examined the cigarette. His eyes flicked to the retreating quarterback, then back to his hardly smoked stick.

. . .

"...eh..shit's robbin' me blind, anyway..."

Arthur decided that perhaps nicotine patches would be a better alternative.


	3. Spray Paint and Help From Above

"And then the prick has the stones to try and tell me how to live my life! It's my body, I can do whatever the fuck I want with it! Like, what's his deal?"

Arthur had rejoined his companions, slightly less annoyed from the one puff he'd taken of what was his last cigarette. Kiku nodded calmly, glancing at the goth beside him who'd begun to speak.

"It's going to be strange, being able to smell the clean air instead of the posions...damn..."

"Yeah. Well I'm kicking the stuff...Colin's not gonna get off his ass and get money, and God knows I can't get a job like this..."

"Patches...like, band aids?"

"Probably."

"Every peel will bring a stinging pain much like the embers of hell."

"...thanks, Dem. I feel a ton more confident about this now."

Arthur felt his pocket buzz. He reached back for his phone, flipping it open to read the text message awaiting him.

'Unlike Demitri, I approve of your lifestyle choice. My mother was beginning to smell it on me and ask questions.'

The Brit looked up, seeing Kiku staring directly at him. Shit, when had he sent this? Quick as lightning, Christ...

"Thanks. Sorry about your mum. You won't have to worry about that anymore."

The Asian shrugged. Arthur sighed, wondering if the boy was just plain mute. He'd never spoken even once in the entire time they'd known each other. Texts and nods, that's all it ever really was.

"Arthur."

"What?"

God, he hated the way Demitri spoke sometimes. He had such a dead-panned drawl that his accent made even worse, and he dragged the 'r's in his name...ugh.

"You're looking more otherworldly than usual today."

"The hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Your foundation seems thicker."

"Ah...yeah. Just experimenting with looks. That's all."

"Okay."

. . .

Not even a questioning. Arthur spat on the ground, leaning back on the building. No one ever listened to him...no one except his mother, anyhow. But he couldn't speak to no one but his mother all the time...what kind of man would he be then?

He'd be his brother, that's who he'd be.

Arthur closed his eyes, laying back in the grass. He didn't want to be Colin. Colin was just a poor excuse for a human being...just like their father. Arthur also didn't want to end up being him. He'd kill himself before he turned out like his son-of-a-bitch father...

Ping.

"Attention students! Day two of Spirit Week begins in five minutes! All students report to the gymnasium!"

"...shit."

Arthur opened his eyes, the sounds of feet clambering and voices chattering immediately filling the air. He sat up, lending a hand to Kiku to help him stand. Demitri didn't like human contact, so he stood on his own.

"Gentlemen...I believe we're overdue for a good sabotage."

"Do you have something in mind, Arthur?"

"Yes, something. Or rather, someone."

. . .

The callouts for the team and cheerleaders had already been made. The cheering and hooting had already occurred, and now, the student body was cheering 'Owls!' while 'Sexy and I Know It' blasted through the speakers. The student body minus three, anyhow.

The punk, the goth, and the J-rock fanatic had snuck down to the locker room and were currently busy spray-painting the football team's spare clothes. Arthur had entered first, taking the black can from his bag and getting to work, tossing different colors to other two. Kiku was rather deliberate, making certain he got every inch of fabric evenly coated, all while covering his mouth to prevent fume inhalation. Demitri was writing strange symbols on the shirts.

Arthur had skipped two bags before coming across one that made him stop. He set the can down, ignoring that it had rolled away toward Kiku.

...he recognized this shirt. And these jeans. This was Jones' bag. He lifted the shirt, turning it around to check out the back. This would be the first.

His shoulder blades would be here...and his arms here...and-

"The hell are you doing in here, freak?"

. . .

Fuck.

Arthur whirled around, gathering two things. One, he was alone. Where the fuck had Dem and Kiku gone off to? And number two, he wasn't alone, as the football team was standing in the door. And God, they kept filing in.

"He trashed our clothes!"

One of the members darted to their bag, the one Dem had just been in front of, pulling up their jeans.

"Dude, it's got like, Latin or some shit on it!"

"Mine, too!"

"What kind of demon-shit is this?"

...God damn you, Demitri.

Arthur stood up, stiff and breathing hard. His 'fuck-off' attitude wouldn't save him here; not when it was one-on-forty-something.

"Now...I'm sure this looks bad, but-"

"Shut up, freak! Ya like fucking up people's clothes? Do ya?"

...Where the hell were his friends? Where the hell had they gone? They really wouldn't just abandon him like this, would they?

"N-no, I mean-"

"Well maybe we'll fuck you up, you little asshole."

They were advancing. Arthur was in the corner, breathing quickly, scared as all hell.

...okay...they were Colin. All of them were Colin, and it would be Colin several times. That was all. Just...Colin. And maybe that one kid in the fifth grade. He closed his eyes, bracing himself for impact.

"Wait a sec!"

There was a shadow through Arthur's eyes, prompting him to open his eyes. His vision was filled with back...someone's back.

"We don't know this guy did it! Did you see him doin' it?"

"Come on, Jones, quit screwin' around."

...Jones?

"Isn't it innocent until proven guilty? There's like, three cans in here, and they're all over there. Plus, if this guy'd been doin' it, he'd have paint on his hands, right?"

Suddenly, the punk was jerked forward by his wrist, his hands forced open by the quarterback defending him.

"See? No paint! So someone else had to have done it. Right?"

Alfred turned around, looking to Arthur, raising his brows and jerking his head lightly to the crowd of angry boys. The Brit had never been this close to him before...damn it. He needed to find that color blue somewhere else. Arthur turned to the crowd and spoke, stuttering.

"...I...m-my friends wanted to come in here and do this, and...I said it was a bad idea, but they didn't listen...I just came in here to see the damage they'd done...I didn't do it."

"Ya see? He didn't do it."

"Come on, Jones. You don't actually believe that crap, do you?"

Arthur watched the quarterback shrug.

"Do you see him with paint on or in his hands?"

The locker room fell silent. Arthur's heart pounded until another one spoke.

"Whatever...fag's not worth it, anyway."

The boys went to their respective bags, digging through whatever hadn't been ruined and finding clothes to change into, sending Arthur glares. The punk stood, still breathing hard.

...Jesus Christ, he'd almost gotten the shit knocked out of him...and...and oh God...

"Hey. You okay?"

Arthur jumped a foot, flicking his gaze to Alfred, who'd all but whispered in his ear. That was a new expression. His brows angled downward, and his eyes shining with genuine concern. His lips gently-

. . .

"Fuck you. Don't ever fucking help me again."

He stormed past, only to be stopped by another grab of his wrist. Arthur whirled around, his face growing hot under the foundation.

"What?"

"Don't I get a thank you for saving your ass? Or is that some black I see under your nails?"

. . .

"...thank you. Ever so much."

Arthur wrenched his arm away from the quarterback and all but ran out. Once he was on the court, seeing the cheerleaders doing some dance, he started sprinting, out the doors and into the sun.

Fuck him.

Fuck that son of a bitch.

His pocket buzzed once...twice. A call?

"Hello?"

"Where are you?"

. . .

"Dem, where the fuck are you? I almost got the shit beat of of me, you son-of-a-"

"Kiku and I are still in here."

. . .

"What?"

"We heard them coming and hid in the showers. I can feel the darkness creeping closer to us."

"No, no, just...shit, stay where you are."

Arthur hung up, looking back at the building.

...God damn it. They hadn't abandoned him, they'd just been smart. The Brit had been so wrapped up in Jones' clothes that he hadn't even noticed an entire football team coming towards him. He ran back in the building, past the bleachers and cheerleaders and in front of the locker room.

Quietly, he strolled back in, ignoring the glares and 'The fuck are you doing back in here's?' as he went straight to Alfred, who was now pulling the clean shirt over his head. A brief glimpse of his abdominals had caught Arthur's eye. Ugh. Gag him.

"Need something?"

The questioning was in the quarterback's tone. Arthur stood for a moment, taking a deep breathe before moving closer.

"I need you to get everyone out of here for at least twenty seconds. Don't ask why. Consider it one favor, and...I'll never bother you again."

"...hm. Well you did say thank you...can I have a hint?"

Arthur rolled his eyes, looking more impatient as he hissed.

"...there are...people in here...who shouldn't be. And if they're found-"

"Hey, guys, Braginski's sister's top fell off in her cartwheel! The older one!"

Within an instant, every boy save for Arthur and Alfred stampeded out, hoping to catch a glimpse of a well-endowed teenage girl. After a few seconds, Arthur spoke rapidly.

"Coast's clear."

Two shower doors burst open, and out came Demitri and Kiku. Kiku looked genuinely frightened; Dem, not so much. Alfred looked over the two before Arthur spoke again.

"Let's get the fuck out of here. Leave the paint."

The boys didn't need to be told twice, nearly tripping as they darted out. Kiku bowed deeply to Alfred before being pulled by Demitri. Arthur turned and sped out, stopping short and turning back to Alfred. The look on the blonde's face was that of mild amusement.

"...gotta stick together, ya know?"

"I know how it is, dude. Get outta here before they come back."

"Don't patronize me, this means nothing."

"Kay."

"...thanks."

Arthur bolted, following his friends out though the double doors out to the parking lot. They would be heading to the river to hide out for awhile, at least until school was over.

Fuck Spirit Week.

Fuck it.


	4. Text Messages and Complimentations

Arthur's heart was still pounding. It slammed in his chest every second of the drive to the river, under their bridge, and every single moment of regaling his friends with that near-death experience.

"So, yeah Dem, a bit of warning would have been fucking brilliant. Or a text."

The Brit flicked his gaze between his two friends, one of whom looked regretful. Demitri looked the same as ever.

"It's a group of forty people who are designed to slam down bodies to the hard ground. They're not exactly silent spirits, Arthur."

Da-ding.

'Plus, you were rather absorbed in Jones' shirt. We didn't want to bother you.'

Arthur stared at the text, feeling his heartbeat quicken further.

"Are you implying something, Kiku? If you've got something to say then say it."

Da-ding.

'I am not implying anything, I was simply stating what might have been the reason for your distraction.'

Demitri's phone went off, too. Apparently, the one decked in visual kei wanted the whole group to be involved with this. The goth spoke, raising his eyes from his phone's screen.

"I'm agreeing with Kiku. You spent more time fawning over Jones' shirt than actually painting it...did you even paint it?"

Arthur scowled at the both of them.

"What the fuck is this, some kind of interrogation? I wasn't fawning, I...I had a perfect idea in mind for what I wanted to draw! It...it was gonna say...'Fuck...fuck the Owls' on the front, and-...and I don't need to explain myself to you guys, fuck you, I came up with the plan-"

"And abandoned it upon sight of the quarterback's day-wear."

Arthur stood, thankful for the way they all painted their faces. He didn't know if Demitri was angry (the goth never showed much expression at all), but the Brit certainly was. The foundation hid most of the angry flush that had come to his cheeks.

"Are you trying to say something, Dem? 'Cause I'm fairly certain I saved the both of your asses today."

Demitri stood, a good three or so inches shorter than Arthur. The goth's features never faltered for an instant.

"Do you think I'm going to say something, Arthur? I'm merely observing...and my observations said that you were looking at Alfred Jones' tee-shirt as if it were something you'd lost and found again, much like a memory. You've never done that in the girls locker roo-"

"Shut the fuck up, Demitri."

"You asked me if I was going to say something. So I'm saying something."

Da-ding.

Both boy's phones went off simultaneously. Arthur glared at Demitri, whipping his phone out along with the goth.

'Stop. We are friends. Demitri, I didn't see anything odd with Arthur's behavior, and Arthur, I do not think it really matters anyhow. We are all safe, and that is what's important. Please calm down.'

. . .

Arthur sighed, snapping his phone shut. Demitri did the same, never taking his eyes off of the punk in front of him.

"...may I be permitted to speak something else?"

"Sure, whatever."

Kiku kept a wary eye on the two, watching for any signs of violence.

"You say it was you who prevented our beautiful demise. In my honest opinion, I believe it was the quarterback you loathe that is responsible for our survival today. You think that, too, do you not?"

"Alfred didn't save us, I’m the one who had to come back and-"

"So you're on a first-name identity status with him now."

. . .

Arthur felt his face grow even hotter, though not from anger.

"Go fuck yourself, Demitri. Come on, Kiku, we're going."

He stormed away from the group, back to his car. Kiku stood instantly, confused. Before he could send a text, Arthur shouted over his shoulder.

"Yes, we're leaving him."

The Asian turned to the goth, looking apologetic. Demitri shook his head.

"I will be fine. Go on."

Kiku hesistated, nodding before hurrying up after the sound of the car horn pierced the air. The vehicle screeched away, leaving Demitri under the bridge.

The goth sighed, reaching for his phone,. His first call would be to his uncle; someone would have to come get him eventually. The second action would be the text sent to his friend.

. . .

There was a light buzz in Kiku's pocket. Arthur was beside him, shouting obscenities in Demitri's name, which slowly turned into curses about Alfred, and how stupid he was, how annoying and showboat-y he was. Kiku managed to check his phone without being noticed.

'What is Arthur doing?'

'He just got through a massive complaint about you, I'm afraid. Now he's cursing Jones. And he said we were going somewhere first. He mentioned 'getting his pride back.'

Though miles apart, the two boys shared the same wavelength.

...something was off about their leader.

. . .

"Arthur, dear, you're home. Goodness, what took you?"

Arthur set his bag by the door and shrugged, smiling at his mother and hugging her as was customary.

"So how was school? I heard at the grocer's that it's Spirit Week. Did you have fun?"

The Brit shrugged again, tapping his throat and waving his hand in a gesture that said 'No,' or 'I'd rather not.'

"Oh, darling, is your throat hurting you? Here, have a lemon drop and head on to you room. We wouldn't that spreading around, goodness no, especially with winter knocking on our doorstep. Come on, off you go."

The woman handed her son a yellow lozenge before shooing him up the stairs.

"Feel better, tomorrow. I love you, dear."

"...love you too, mum."

He faked his way through sounding hoarse, overhearing the 'My poor dear' behind him as he shut the door.

Arthur Kirkland didn't have a sore throat, and he did not have fun at school. He stood in front of the mirror, examining his face. No discernible way to tell without talking. Good. He'd just have to stay quiet around home was all.

He opened his mouth as far as he could, the black stud on tongue being very prominent. The area around the piercing was still quite red; he'd have to clean this every day for awhile, and the taste of the solution was foul.

The punk closed his mouth and sat on the bed, sighing again.

…Why had he gone and done this? He'd told Kiku it was to 'reassert himself,' but for what? What good was a piercing no one was going to see? He should've gone for the eyebrow...or maybe his lip.

But then his mother...she would've fainted on the spot. Arthur remembered the day he'd come home with his hair dyed completely red. The poor woman had nearly had a heart attack, but accepted it. Perhaps she assumed this was just a phase in her boy's life; it would wear itself out.

Was Demitri's thing a phase? Arthur had met the kid the way he was as a freshman. He never really could picture the goth ever being happy, playing around...doing normal activities. And if he had been, what the fuck had happened to him?

The punk never questioned Kiku. Kiku could do whatever he wanted, and it never bothered Arthur. The guy was fun to be around, and he rarely complained, so that was an extra perk.

After a quiet and mildly painful dinner with his mother (was he supposed to take this out when he ate?), Arthur went to bed, thinking of the day's events.

. . .

. . .

"Hey."

"What?"

"Nice stud."

"...you saw that?"

"Course I did. Looks hot."

"...oh."

"Mind if I check it out closer?"

"The hell are you-...mm...hmm..."

. . .

Da ding.

. . .

Da-ding.

Arthur's eyes opened, bleary. The phone in the grass beside him was going off, and Kiku averted his gaze immediately. School had begun, and the three were skipping as usual. The Brit lifted his phone, checking the text.

'Are you alright?’

"Yesth, Kiku, I'm fine. Why?"

The tongue stud had had more of an effect than he'd wanted...

Da-ding.

'You were making strange noises in your sleep. I feared you might have been experiencing a seizure.'

. . .

"N-no, no sheizure. Justh...don't worry, alright?

Though his dream...it had been quite vivid. And the strangest part was he couldn't think of who had been kissing him...or really, making out with him would be more appropriate. This person had completely stolen Arthur's breath away, kissing him hard and good and-

"Perhaps our leader was experiencing a wet dream."

The punk looked up, completely dumbfounded. Had Demitri sounded sarcastic just them? His voice had a range?

"He has been acting rather strange after his encounter with Jones."

"Dem, you're really stharting to get on my-"

"Can I join you?"

A new voice joined the conversation. Arthur and Demitri looked up, seeing that the quarterback was standing just a ways away. Shit! How long had he been there? How much had he heard? Had he just asked the join them?

Why the fuck was he here?

"That's up to our leader."

Demitri nodded to Arthur, worsening the situation. Alfred laughed a bit, a truly musical sound.

"Your leader? Okay."

Thank God for makeup. Every drop of embarrassment would've poured from his complexion if Arthur weren't wearing any. He spoke carefully.

"Don't...you..need to be...in classth?"

Shit, he'd gotten too comfortable. Shit, shit, shit! Alfred raised a brow, mimicking Arthur's way of speaking.

"Shouldn't...you...be, too? Nice tongue ring, by the way."

Fuck, he'd seen that too. Arthur watched as Alfred sat down, sticking out like a sore thumb from the freaks. His letterman jacket didn't exactly match with Kiku's spikes or the Brit's leather pants.

"...So what's up? No one's tried to bother ya or anything, right? 'Cause if anyone does, come find me, okay? I'll handle it. Really, I thought it was kinda funny what you guys did, but maybe that's because I wasn't a part of it, but hey! Were you the one that wrote Latin on Rogers' boxers? Holy shit, I knew if I started laughing in the locker room, they'da whaled on me, too, but oh my God. What'd it say?

. . .

Demitri looked completely stupefied. Kiku looked ready to wet himself, and Arthur… Arthur was just thankful that he hadn't yet. What the fuck was he doing here? Why was he being so casual? He thought they'd been funny?

The goth coughed quietly before speaking.

"The Latin meant 'May the spirits curse your endowments.'"

Alfred laughed so loudly that everybody jumped.

"Dude, that's so great! I mean, we're all in the showers and stuff, and seriously, we all hate him 'cause-"

"What do you want, Jones?"

Arthur had finally found his voice, working through the lisp the best he could.

"...What do ya mean? I was checking to see if you guys were okay. Especially you...Arthur, right?"

. . .

Especially you...Arthur, right?

Arthur, right?

Arthur.

Arthur.

"Yo...you okay?"

The Brit had lost himself in a daze, quickly coming back out. Every eye in the group was on him. Kiku's looked worried, Demitri's as stoic as ever, and Alfred's...bright and happy.

"I mean, you looked scared shitless yesterday. I just wanted to make sure everyone was fine."

"...w-we're fine. Stho… so you can go, now."

"Aw, but I'm having fun! This is way better than sitting in Yao's class learning about trig. I usually like all the teachers, but that guy's just a douche. I swear, I know he hates me."

...he wasn't going to budge. Arthur looked to Kiku, who shrugged. Demitri spoke next.

"Jones, not to sound rude, but you do not belong here. The spirits tell me that you must-"

"You can talk to ghosts? Dude, that's awesome!"

. . .

"Not exactly, but-"

"And these spikes are cool!"

Alfred had taken to poking the shoulder-spikes on Kiku's coat. The poor boy looked utterly terrified; Arthur and Demitri were the only ones he was fairly used to with being so close. Alfred however...

Da-ding.

"He sthaysth to knock it off."

"Huh? No he didn't."

Arthur held out the phone, the words 'Please tell him to stop' reading clear on the screen.

"Oh...sorry, man."

Alfred took his hands away from the spikes, watching Kiku suddenly relax.

"So...you guys are all-"

"Freaksth? Yesth. Thanksth for reminding usth."

"Huh? Whoah, no, not freaks. You guys are kinda cool!"

. . .

"Cool?"

"Yeah! He can talk to ghosts, this one looks like he'd be perfect for a rock band, and you...look at you! How can you not think you guys are cool?"

"...alright. Nicthe. Joke'sth over, you've had your fun. Now leave."

"I'm serious! Your hair is different, noticeable. My mom would skin me if I dyed my hair, or pierced my toungue, or anything. It's awesome."

. . .

Just the fuck what was going on here? Was there a hidden camera somewhere? Arthur turned to his friends. Kiku, wide-eyed, shrugged. Demitri shrugged as well, unable to come up with anything.

...well...shit.

"Ah...I'm Arthur. Thisth isth Demitri...he'sth a goth...and Kiku'sth really into Japanesthe meta-"

"Have you always talked like that?"

"...it'sth the sthud..."

"Oh, okay. And what do you like?"

What did he like? Arthur stared at the newcomer, with his big smile and blonde hair and blue eyes...he...he actually wanted to know.

He wanted to talk to him. Ask him questions, engage him with conversation.

"...I don't sthee why that mattersth."

Arthur huffed, turning away from everyone with a hard glare. Alfred raised a brow before shrugging.

"Hey, do any of you have the time?"

Kiku already had his phone out, holding it up for the jock to see.

"...shit, I gotta go change. See you guys at the pep rally! Later, Arthur!"

Alfred got up, speeding away with a wave towards the gymnasium, leaving three very confused teenage boys behind.

"...that...was easily the strangest thing I have ever witnessed upon this Earth."

Da-ding.

'Arthur doesn't look well.'

'I noticed. It seems worse than I thought.'

"Well come on."

The Brit stood very suddenly, walking towards the gym.

"We're going, and we're going to boo."

The two hopped up, following Arthur quickly. The goth and rocker exchanged glances. Arthur took great pride in his appearance, his makeup. However, he never applied any in places he thought no one would see.

The nape of Arthur's neck was bright red, almost matching his hair.


	5. Realizations and New Ideas

"Shove it up your fuckin' ass, you twat!"

Arthur pulled back from his bellowing, panting after the insult had been delivered. Wednesday. Spirit Week day three, and 'Give it up for your quarterback, Alfred F. Jones!' had just been called. Immediately as the roaring and whooping began, the punk had started cursing up and down; put simply, a sailor would have been ashamed to hear such language.

He stood on the bleachers, swearing and screaming with Demitri and Kiku by his side. The two watched their leader apprehensively. Quietly, the Asian's cellphone sent a text message.

'Arthur is in rare form today.'

'Indeed. It's different today, though.'

'How do you mean?'

'He waited until Jones was called before starting up this time. Didn't you notice?'

'I noticed, but I did not think it important. He said that hating him is the equivalent of hating the entirety of the team.'

Demetri read through the last text as he looked up at Arthur.

'...frankly, I'm not certain how truthful he's been as of late...'

The goth put his phone away, prompting Kiku to do the same. Arthur would remain standing and shouting obscenities until the very end of the pep rally. The punk sat down, throat raw, panting hard as he watched the students file out of the gym. His face was flushed from over-excitement...God. That had been the best booing yet, at least today.

"I...I think that...went well. I certainly...certainly made up for...you two's lack of enthusiasm."

The Brit looked between Demitri and Kiku, still trying to get his breath and voice back. Kiku shrugged as Demitri answered.

"I sincerely believed you were doing enough for all three of us put together."

Arthur's mouth opened and closed for a moment.

"...yeah. Yeah, I did do good, didn't I? I did fuckin' great!"

He stood and shouted, the gym having emptied out. Arthur jumped down three rows of bleachers to the floor, turning and facing his companions. He laughed, something that sounded pretty damn hoarse at the moment.

"And you think I can only do good when I'm afar, don't you? I'll tell you what. Next time, I'm gonna go right up to Jones, get right in his stupid, perfect face, and-"

"My face is perfect?"

Arthur jumped about a three feet as he whirled around. And there was Alfred, smiling that God-awful smile, a brow raised and eyes wide, God, just die. He was dressed back down in his school clothes, today a white t-shirt that displayed just how broad his shoulders were...shoulders and chest, really. His disgustly toned-arms quickly became invisible as the jock slipped his brown letterman over them, a bold '50' emblazoned on the back. Arthur felt his face heat up immediately, skittering away from Alfred with a furious glare.

"I...I did not say perfect! Why the fuck would I say perfect? There's nothing perfect about your face...fuck you!"

"...okay. Hey, do you guys wanna go get something to eat after school or something? My treat if it's Mickey D's."

The jock had turned his attention to Demitri and Kiku, both of whom looked surprised. Arthur's jaw dropped as he stepped back into Alfred's line of sight.

"Um, hello? Leader? All decisions of extracurricular activities have to be approved by me! Kiku's got terrible social anxiety...I guess, and Demitri's...Demitri. He's not exactly welcome at most McDonald's Playplaces, if that's what you have in mind."

Alfred looked down at him, expression heavily amused. Fuck, what was this guy's deal? This was a system; if he wanted to associate with the 'freaks,' he'd have to speak with King Freak.

Alfred looked away, trying not to laugh at the short, angry punk in front of him. After a moment to gather himself, he coughed and looked back with something between a smile and smirk.

"So I'd need to ask you if you all want to hang out after school?"

"And why!"

Arthur was more than suspicious. Why the hell would Alfred want to be seen with them? Especially in public? What was he trying to pull? Was this a test? He'd probably spill iced coffee on one of them, then tell his buddies to storm the place, 'It worked, they believed me!' Arthur glared; he couldn't allow this to happen.

The jock sighed, rolling his eyes.

"I told you, you guys are cool! Plus it beats going out with someone from the team. You wouldn't believe it, it's always football this, girlfriend that, yada yada yada, it's like...I don't care, ya know? I just thought you guys might have something interesting to talk about. You seem fun!"

"We're not fun."

Demitri spoke up. There were two questions in his mind, the first if which involving how and when Arthur had suddenly become overseer of their social life...or what there was of a social life, anyway. The second was Alfred...strange occurrences had been plaguing the group, and it all revolved around the quarterback.

"What're you talking about? Of course you're fun! Better than half the team, anyway..."

Arthur scoffed, standing his ground despite his reddedning cheeks.

"Look, don't you have a girlfriend you can take or something?"

Alfred blinked and looked at the court, sliding his sneaker across the floor in a line. Arthur stared in confusion until the blonde spoke.

"...nah. Plus like I said, you guys seem more fun than...I dunno..."

. . .

What the hell?

"...well, I told you, I'm the leader here. I'm the decision maker, I'm the control panel. Where I go, they go. Either figure that out, or...actually no. Dont figure it out. Just go."

Alfred paused for a moment, raising his eyes directly to Arthur's. The Brit looked away to his friends. Kiku was watching with rapt attention, while Demitri appeared puzzled.

"So...everything goes by you first?"

"Yes."

"And where you go, your friends come, too?"

"So you do actually listen when others are speaking? Yes, I said that, too. Now quit wasting my time."

"...okay. Lemme try again."

All of a sudden, Alfred changed his stance. The jock turned, his back facing to Arthur. He spun back around, shifting his weight to his right leg and placing a hand in his letterman pocket. The half smirk turned to a full smile, a joking grin, really, and his voice was filled with a tone that implied laughter. Arthur was already confused and stunned. What followed after didn't alleviate a damn thing.

"Hey, Arthur, wanna go get something to eat after school? My treat."

. . .

. . .

"...dude, you okay?"

Alfred may not have seen it, but the Brit's friends certainly did. Their leader's complexion had turned blood-red, the only sign of a different coloration coming from his wide eyes. The green stuck out like...well, like how he stuck out. How him and friends stuck out from the people like Alfred.

'...I had a feeling, but I wasn't certain until this very moment.'

'I despise jumping to conclusions, but it appears the hunch was correct.'

'What should we do?'

'Do what I do, Kiku...observe.'

. . . .

Arthur stared at the milkshake in front him, refusing to look up at anyone. Demitri and Kiku were sharing a twenty-piece nugget box; the bastards had launched to the table, sitting across from each other. According to seating arrangements, that put Alfred directly in front of the punk. The jock had virtually the entire menu spread out in front of him, and Jesus Christ, he wouldn't shut up.

"-and then it went everywhere and it was a bitch to clean. So anyways, are you guys ready for Friday? We're all really jazzed up and-"

"Jones, just tell us what you're doing."

Alfred stopped, looking inquisitively at Arthur, who'd finally stopped boring a hole in the table with his gaze.

"...eating?"

He swallowed the enormous chuck of food in his mouth, pointing at Arthur's mouth, or really, his tongue stud.

"Speaking of, can you eat with that thing in? Does food get stuck in it? Ah dude, that's nasty, but I guess-"

"Shut the fuck up."

Arthur all but slammed his fist on the table. Demitri and Kiku weren't quiet eavesdropping, but they certainly weren't ignoring the two. Alfred rolled his eyes.

"This again? I told you, I think you guys are cool. You're interesting!"

"Jones, you don't get it, do you? We're not interesting. We're freaks. Outcasts. We're...I mean, me and Dem, not Kiku, we're failing 'cause we cut class. We smoke. We dress like this as a choice. We're disobedient and disrespectful, and we swear and get piercings, and it's just every damn thing we are, you're not. Get that through your thick skull, and get back to your own life."

...and stay the hell out of mine.

Alfred grinned, sucking his Coke down before taking the spotlight.

"The only reason I'm passing is 'cause of my brother Matthew. If he didn't let me copy his homework, I'd be fucking screwed. And I can swear, too. 'Fuck's the word of the week every week. And I'm a quarterback. I've been to parties. People there do a lot worse than cigarettes, but I've only had a beer or two. Never drove though, that's just fucking stupid, Matt came and got me. And see? I swore again! Also...remember I said my mom would skin me if I got a piercing?"

The jock looked around, as if expecting his mother to be sitting at the next booth over.

"...check it out."

Alfred pulled at his shirt's collar, revealing most of his shoulder and clavicle...which jutted out and led to his neck, what with all the muscles. Shit, Arthur just wanted to punch him right now. Of course, Alfred's horrendously perfect collarbone wasn't the main thing catching the punk's eye. No, it was the marking near his clavicle, nearly on the bone, that was garnering attention.

The small, red heart.

"...I had to sneak out at like, one in the morning with a forged permission slip, but I did it. I dunno why, I just kinda...wanted too, ya know? And hiding it's easy...'cept in the shower, but you know how that is."

He let the collar go with a grin, the shirt snapping back into place

"See? We're not so different."

Arthur was completely dumbfounded. What the fuck we he trying to prove? Was he trying to make their trio a...God, what did they call a group of four? A quad-...drio? An ensemble? Fuck that!

"...yeah, that's nice. Excuse me, I need to go wash my tongue."

The Brit got up stiffly and walked off to the restrooms, picking up an empty cup from the drink dispensers and five-some-odd salt packets, leaving the three behind him. He needed a moment to think. After the door shut and he was standing in the subpar public bathroom, he sighed, slapping his face gently.

"Okay...just...fucking damn it."

He hit the wall, moving to the sink. The punk filled the cup halfway with water, pouring the salt in. According to the Internet, this was an alternative to that God-awful solution they'd given him to rinse with. Anything but that shit again. He shook the cup well, taking a deep swig.

Arthur immediately regretted doing it, as a burning sensation filled his mouth and made him wince. He sputtered and coughed the liquid out, hacking. Fuck, that hurt! And he was supposed to rotate the stud to get all angles? Fuck it. Fuck the whole thing. He'd worked through the lisp but just...fuck it.

He worked the piercing out, realizing too late that that was a poor decision as well. Blood poured from the hole, scaring him to death until he placed it back in, sounds of distress filling the bathroom. Thank God he was alone. Arthur made a normal cup of water and rinsed out the blood, spitting it out into the sink.

...this had been a horrific decision. And now he was stuck with it for four to six weeks. He sighed heavily and placed his hands on the sink, looking down in exhaustion. The knock at the door received an "Occupied."

"I know. You okay?"

...great.

"I'm fine. I'm not fucking five, Jones. I didn't drown."

"You sounded like you were in pain...does it hurt?"

"I poured saltwater into an open wound in my tongue. The fuck do you think?"

"...are you okay?"

Alfred sounded softer, more private. It took Arthur by surprise, but he nodded, responding the same way.

"I'm alright...just...kinda wishing I hadn't been stupid enough to get my damn tongue pierced."

The handle turned, making Arthur realize he hadn't locked it, and in came Alfred, wearing a half-smile.

"Yeah...the tattoo was a bitch. Then there was hiding it. Whoo...I can't even imagine you. Are you just like, a mime around the house now?"

"Pretty much, yeah..."

Not like he spoke much to Colin or his mother anyway.

"Makes sense. As a person who normally doesn't wear shirts to bed, my mom started getting real suspicious when I suddenly started, ya know? But eh, I got the ink low and deep enough in, so it'll be good."

Arthur shrugged.

"I just want rid of mine stupid thing.”

"Eh, no way. It looks cool, not stupid."

"...really?"

"Yeah, really, are you kidding? It looks awesome. Hey do that rocker thing they all do!"

. . .

"Oh come on! That thing? You know, you look just like one!"

Alfred stuck out his tounge and held out a hand, the pinky and pointer fingers extended. Ah, that rocker thing. Arthur didn't know why he was humoring the jock, but he stuck out his tongue and, instead of what Alfred had done, stuck up his middle finger. Alfred laughed, prompting Arthur to stop and look away.

"Dude, that was perfect!"

"Thanks..."

The two stood in the dirty, wet McDonald's bathroom for several long moments, neither looking at or speaking to the other. Arthur took this moment to think.

...perhaps Alfred wasnt terrible. Hell, he admitted the jock was good-looking, and rather funny...'that rocker thing,' honestly. And he was certainly friendly; a friend of his friends was his friend, right?

...and that tattoo. That was badass. Arthur may have gotten a piercing, but Alfred had several. Several hundred...a thousand maybe. Dying his skin permanently. And Arthur was gonna pussy out and ditch the stud? Hell no, not anymore!

"Did...did we just have a decent conversation?"

Alfred spoke, looking rather nervous. Arthur nodded, managing to keep his gaze on the boy in front of him.

"I guess it was decent."

The blonde laughed, stopping short.

"...you wanna get something to eat sometime?"

Arthur's brows furrowed.

"We're all already at-"

"No, I mean...I've...kinda already gotten to know your friends, but...uh...I mean, I'd kinda...I don't know much about you, so..."

Alfreds voice trailed off. Arthur was staring at the jock as if he'd just admitted to being a serial killer's son; total shock and bewilderment.

"Ah...forget it, I was just...damn it, um...when I meet new people, I try to impress 'em, ya know? And...I...I just-"

"Sure."

"...huh?"

"...I'll get some food with you. But...and I mean this, I'm not doing it because you asked, it's just...I don't get to eat out often. That's all. So I'll take whatever opportunity I can get."

Alfred looked at him for a long while before bursting into laughter, the sound bouncing off the linoleum tiles.

"Yeah, okay. No problem."

He punched Arthur's shoulder lightly, getting a blush from the punk. No, wait, not a blush. Blushing was for stupid girls...

"How about Andretti's? Eight o'clock tomorrow night? You can come for the food, and I'll come for you."

Alfred tapped Arthur's nose on 'you,' turning on a heel to the bathroom's exit.

"See ya back at the table, dude."

And he left, leaving Arthur in the bathroom.

...had...

Had Arthur's first date been proposed inside a McDonald's bathroom? He wasn't sure whether or not he ought to be ashamed or proud. For one, it was a fucking McDonald's bathroom. It was completely weird and unorthodox.

...on the other, it was weird and unorthodox.

Arthur had a penchant for the weird and unorthodox.


	6. Poor Decisions and Bad Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Eiram.J for the tip that this chapter was malfunctioning. I must've accidentally swapped this correcting a typo! ^^'

Arthur had already taken Demitri and Kiku back to their homes. Alfred had left in his own vehicle, meaning the Brit was alone in his trip to the pharmacy. He'd completely forgotten about the nicotine patches in all the hubbub with the quarterback, and the withdrawals were getting worse.

He didn't need a prescription for this shit, right? God help him if he did. Luckily, the box he placed on the counter was rung up without any issue, save for a sidelong stare of judgement from the cashier. The punk rolled his eyes, handing over the cash. This investment was better than being a permanent slave to something that was going to kill him.

It meant giving in to the corporation, anyhow, so this was also a giant 'Fuck you!' as it was better for him.

Arthur didn't wait. The second he got back in his car, the box was torn open, the instructions were scanned, and a patch was slapped on just above his collarbone. Oh God, he could feel it already...or maybe that was his mind telling him it was all better. Nevertheless.

The drive home was peaceful.

...at least, until he remembered Alfred, and his proposition. So...was he to believe that he had a date tomorrow? Arthur had never been on a date before. What was he supposed to do? Should he dress up? In what? Less makeup? More? Andretti's was a fairly well-known local restaurant. Italian food. He enjoyed Italian food, and it was certainly a typical date spot, so-

. . .

Wait a minute, why the fuck was he getting so worked up about this? This wasn't a date, why the hell would he even think that? Alfred was a guy, he wouldn't ask Arthur on a date. The jock wasn't even into guys, why the hell would he be? Alfred could have any girl in school he wanted! He was the fucking quarterback, he wasn't gay!

And neither was Arthur! The punk might have agreed with the female populous that yes, Alfred was quite attractive. Blonde hair like sunlight, and blue eyes like pools of-

"...Fuck it, I'm not going."

The foundation hid the Brit's embarrassment as he pulled into his driveway, slamming the car door on his way into the house. His mother was right there in the den, vacuuming. She looked up as he arrived, turning off the cleaning appliance to hug her son.

"Arthur, dear, hello. You've been coming home later and later these days...goodness, you're burning up! Perhaps a bit less product, hm? It's holding back the sweat, isn't it?"

The punk hesitated before nodding. He hated lying to his mother...he really did, but it was for the best. She had accepted his style choices, his red hair and clothes. What on Earth would she think, though, if she found out her son was skipping classes, getting piercings, smoking...?

Every few months or so, Arthur questioned why he did the things he did. He'd lay in his room, stare at the ceiling, and wonder why he behaved in ways that would hurt her if she ever found out.

Colin had started smoking at age fourteen, and she had been a wreck for months. Arthur was seventeen now, but...still. In terms of 'heartbreak,' their mother was probably just waiting for some kind of lapse. Her blonde little boy would come down the stairs and show off a drawing he'd done, or a poem he'd written, and her redhead would speak to her the way she deserved; with respect

He made his way towards the stairs, speaking once his back (and more specifically, his tongue) was to his mother.

"I have plans tomorrow...someone invited me to dinner."

There was a small gasp behind him, along with something that sounded like small claps.

"Oh, Artie, that's brilliant! I'll help you get ready for it, leave it to me. Oh, my boy, on a date. She won't know what hit her!"

. . .

And that didn't help one single bit.

. . . .

He lay in his room, not asleep, but listening to the sounds through the house. There were light clankings from the kitchen; his mother was preparing dinner, and from the smell of it, some kind of stew. Murmurs were coming from the wall opposite him...light, high ones. Colin must've snuck another one of his girlfriends home. It looked as if Arthur would be sleeping with headphones on full blast again tonight. He'd prefer to go deaf from Def Leppard than to hear the likes of that.

...it wasn't his mother's fault for giving in rather than disciplining. She'd been raising them on her own since...well, Arthur had never really known his father. Colin seemed to hate him a good deal, and for good reason, to Arthur's understanding. His older brother had been five when the divorce had taken place, and Arthur just a cluster of forming cells. The bastard had cheated on their mother while she was pregnant.

He didn't even bother coming to the delivery room to meet his new son. Or stopping by. Or calling, or anything that might have indicated sentiment.

Arthur didn't ever want to meet him; people like that didn't deserve to exist. He didn't even know what the man looked like. His mother deserved better than trash like that. Far better.

...was this sort of thinking better than contemplating tomorrow's events? Perhaps short-term hatred was better than this. Better for his mind, anyway. No good dwelling on the uncontrollable. His father had abandoned them, and that was that.

Alfred had asked the punk out for dinner. That was very much controllable.

The punk plugged in his earbuds, blasting music until it was all he could hear.

...he wondered what sort of music Alfred liked. Or movies. Maybe he could ask tomorrow.

Arthur could ask him if decided to go, of course. Which he wasn't.

. . .

"The fuck do you mean I should go? And how do you know about it, anyway?"

Arthur and his two dark companions were outside the school, their usual spot. Class was in session, and at the moment the punk was staring incredulously at Demitri. The goth had just brought up Arthur's dilemma out of the blue, with a monotone follow-up of, "I think it would be beneficial for you to go."

"Jones told us after he came back from the bathroom yesterday. He seemed rather excited about it."

...excited? Alfred had talked about him when he got back?

Da-ding.

Arthur flipped his phone open; now Kiku was getting involved.

'I believe you should do whatever makes you happy. You only have a few hours until school is over.'

Arthur scoffed at the screen, looking up to Kiku with disgust.

"Oh come on! I...well, he said it's his treat! Free food, and a night away from Colin? It sounds pretty damn good! I'm not going out with him because it makes me happy, so-"

"Going out with him?"

And again, there was the slightest hint of questioning in Demitri's voice. Stop having a personality, God damn you! Arthur whipped his gaze to the goth's direction, flushing under the makeup.

"You know what I meant, it came out wrong! Don't be stupid!"

There was no reply from either boy. The two merely shrugged and let Arthur be, which only pissed the Brit off more.

"You don't believe me do you? What the hell's you two's problem, anyway? Kiku I understand being quiet, but you're getting on my nerves, Dem. if you've got something to say, fucking say it."

. . .

"It's not like I like him or some stupid shit like that, so the both of you just shut the hell up!"

Demitri looked up, blinking in response. Arthur wasn't even looking at them anymore. Well. He'd taken that leap all on his own. The goth looked to Kiku, who was furiously texting away. Any second now-...yes. There was the buzz. The black-clad teen silently pulled out his phone.

'This is a most unexpected predicament.'

'Not really, my friend. I've had my suspicions for some time now.'

'As have I, but I did not wish to be rude.'

'It isn't rude if it's true, Kiku.'

. . .

"...put your hands together for your quarterback, our hero, Alfred F. Jones!"

'He is not standing. This is highly irregular.'

'I noticed, Kiku.'

Arthur wasn't standing. He wasn't smirking, or ranting, or booing, or...anything. He was just sort of staring into space, down at the court. At Alfred? Demitri found that it was hard to follow his eyes. The pep rally had been going for a good half-hour and the punk hadn't spoken a single syllable.

The pep rally ended. Thursday. One more day before the game. People poured out of the gym, ready for class while the dark trio hung back. Now the team was leaving, carrying duffel bags. The team except for one, anyway, as a tall blonde made their way towards them.

"Hey guys!"

Arthur jumped a foot, turning to look at Alfred. Ugh, quit smiling, you prick.

"Hello..."

"Are we still good for tonight?"

The Brit had a hard time trying to formulate the word 'No,' especially when that face looked so hopeful. Those dazzling teeth, and earnest eyes and-

"Yeah. Can't wait."

And now the smile was a bold grin that punk wanted to knock out.

"Awesome! I was thinking we could just head to my place after school, study or whatever. Better than trying to find your house. I'd probably get lost, knowing me. Sound good?"

...whoah. What? Arthur hadn't signed up for this. Now he was going to the jock's home? Meet his family? Study 'or whatever?' What the fuck was 'or whatever?’ Every teen movie he'd ever seen went through his mind, the scenarios that took place when teens went over to each other's houses to 'study or whatever.'

What if his parents weren't home? What if Alfred tried making a move on him? What if he tried doing 'or whatever?'

Oh...oh he was overreacting. Alfred wasn't gay, and even if he was, it's not like Arthur would...well...it's not as if he'd...the jock was attractive, but why the hell would he want Arthur of all people?

Yeah. There was the solid reasoning. Arthur was safe. He pushed back the smallest inkling of disappointment as he tried to speak again.

"...sounds...brilliant."

"O...kay...then."

Alfred laughed, mimicking Arthur's stutter.

"Sorry, you're just funny. Okay. Meet me after school, okay? I'm parked next to you."

The jock left. Arthur was still trying to piece together his life choices, while Demitri and Kiku stared at each other. The back of their leader's neck was blood-red, his eyes were wide, and he was biting his nails...something the two had never recalled the punk ever doing.

There wasn't a single doubt anymore, save for Arthur's.


	7. Stuttering Speech and Homemade Pancakes

Arthur was, unbelievably, in class after the pep rally. Demitri and Kiku had hung back in the gym, and the punk only assumed that they were skipping. He was hardly paying attention to the lesson, whatever it was, but he wasn't sleeping; to everyone else in the room, it was off-putting when one considered Arthur's reputation.

...after school. He was going home with Alfred after school. That meant he didn't even have time to change, or spruce up, or anything. Shit! How the hell could he just spring up a plan like that? Didn't the jock want to get ready for the date, too?

...date.

No. This wasn't a date they were going on, of course not. Alfred wasn't gay. And neither was Arthur.

Which meant this wasn't a date. Dates were for people who liked each other, enjoyed each other's company. Yeah, there we go! They hated each other! Or, at least Arthur hated Alfred. There was no point in him even going on this date other than the food; apparently Andretti's had the best-

...date.

Damn it, this was not a date!

The bell rang. The students who were preoccupied in watching the nervous Brit twitched, startled from the sudden noise as they hurriedly left the room. Arthur looked around, realizing that this was his last class. The schedule had somewhat slipped his mind, considering he'd never really participated in it.

The end of the day had arrived, and Arthur was supposed to head straight to the parking lot to meet Alfred. To get in the jock's truck, and have him drive away.

...next to Alfred...in Alfred's truck.

...not unless Arthur made it the parking lot before the quarterback did. If he got there early, he could just jump in his Subaru and speed away. 'You were taking too long, I wasn't interested anyway.'

Yes. It had to be done.

The punk jumped up, gathering his belongings and sprinting out of the room, down the hall. He was fairly certain he knocked over a few freshman, but hey, the dumb bitches weren't smart enough to get out of the way. Alright, there was the exit. He could see the sun. His car would be right there, and-

. . .

...fuck.

Fucking damn it.

There he was, looking like some poster-child for perfectness...stupid git. Alfred was leaning against his truck...it looked like he was chewing gum. The wind was catching the jock's hair nicely, though the sun wasn't. When had these dark clouds blown in? Oh God, anything but rain.

Was this a sign of some sort?

"Hey! You got out here quick."

Alfred took a few steps from the truck, hands in his letterman pockets. He smiled, blowing a bubble as he waited for Arthur's response. After a moment or two of suppressing rage at himself for not being quick enough, the punk spoke quietly.

"I was going to say the same."

The quarterback laughed, turning his back on Arthur to head to the driver's side. He gestured for Arthur to follow, explaining himself. His voice lowered, speaking over the vehicle as he stepped in.

"Remember yesterday when you said we had nothing in common? Hurry up, get in. I don't want anyone else to hear."

The Brit paused, slowly slipping into the passenger's seat.

...this was surreal. Exceedingly surreal. How many other people had sat here beside Alfred? His family? Brother? Various girls from the cheer squad?

"Well? What is it?"

Alfred held a finger up ('one minute') as he ignited the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, away from their high school, and away from Arthur's sanity.

"...I lied. I told the teacher I had headache and that I was heading to the nurse..."

He leaned towards Arthur, prompting the punk to flinch away suddenly as Alfred whispered.

"I didn't really have a headache."

Arthur blinked, settling back in his seat.

...what in God's name was going on with his life? These were his choices. His choices had placed him not even two feet from Alfred F. Jones.

"...that's...I hope you don't think you're a rebel or something."

"Oh yeah? What've you done? And don't say the piercing or smoking. By the way, you don't smell like an ashtray anymore."

Arthur flushed. He'd noticed? It'd only been a few days since he'd smoked last, but...oh, what did he care?

"Well...my hair, for one. I snuck out and got it dyed when I was fifteen."

"Damn...what's your real color?"

"...I don't see why that matters. Until I decide to go back, which I don't see happening anytime soon, this is real color."

"Okay, okay, geez."

There was an uncomfortable silence. Arthur could truly think about just what was going on here. He was in Alfred F. Jones' Chevrolet. The star athlete had invited him, Arthur Kirkland, to dinner. The punk and the fucking quarterback.

Alfred started rambling, only setting Arthur on edge even further.

"So, my mom's kinda chatty, and you probably won't get to meet Dad, but Matt'll definitely be home, and if we're lucky he'll be making some kinda food for himself, and by himself, I mean all of us. I don't look it, but I like food. Like...actually, you could probably tell from McDonald's yesterday, but Coach has us all on a pretty good workout schedule, so it's not like I can't pig out every now and then, right? You don't look like you eat much. Just saying, don't be like a chick and order something like just yogurt or gelato or whatever. People need to eat, ya know, so-"

"Is this a date?"

Arthur blurted what was on his mind, regretting it immediately. Oh God. Oh God, he hadn't just said that. Shit. Fuck. Kill him. God, send lightning and strike him down. Alfred's 'uh's and 'er's beside we're even worse.

"I...I guess not..."

. . .

Oh.

Arthur nodded, laughing very forcibly. Faking it. Fighting something that felt like severe disappointment.

"You ought to see your face, I was joking, Christ."

Alfred paused before laughing along nervously.

"Oh, okay...good one."

. . .

And another uncomfortable silence.

What the hell had that been? Arthur wanted to kill himself right now! Would this door unlock? Could he jump out and hit the pavement? Would that kill him? Jesus Christ. Alfred probably thought he was a freak!

...just...like everyone else. Which was fine. Why would he place the jock's opinion above other's, especially when it was the same as the others?

There was a deep knot in Arthur's stomach as they pulled into Alfred's driveway.

"Well. Home sweet home."

The house looked decent enough. One story, nice paint job. The yard was plain. The black mailbox read 'Jones.' Arthur looked over to Alfred, who was smiling fondly at the structure as they stepped out of the truck. Had he brushed off the date remark? It certainly seemed like it.

"Um...hey, your mum...she won't...I mean, when you said she's chatty-"

"She won't ask about you. But uh...be careful talking. If she sees your stud she might say something. Trust me, she'll have more to say once you're gone."

Arthur mumbled a 'wonderful' as they walked into the threshold. A very plain interior. Faded wallpaper, beat-up sofas, the usual. It looked like the perfect 'Before' image for a makeover.

"Mom?"

"Not home yet, Al."

A quiet voice came from the kitchen. Alfred grinned, gesturing for Arthur to follow. The Brit hesitantly agreed, moving deeper into the Jones' home. A delicious aroma filled the air.

"Hey, Matt. We got company."

The boy in the kitchen was almost a carbon-copy of Alfred. He even had a stupid little cowlick, though his was a bit more curly. He stood over the stove, wiping steam from his glasses as he looked to his brother. Were those pancakes? But weren't those a breakfast food? Arthur was puzzled...they smelled good, great, even. Chocolate chips.

"Geez, Al, maybe a little warning before you bring a girl home, I mean-…holy shit."

Matthew's eyes fell on their guest, the red-haired punk, Arthur Kirkland, who was standing in their kitchen. The spatula he was holding clattered to the floor, and the boy himself nearly fell with it. Alfred laughed while Arthur looked around rapidly. What the hell was going on?

"It's okay, Matt, we're studying."

"...o-okay..."

"Um...h-hello...you're brother...we're studying."

. . .

The three teens were utterly silent. Alfred looked as if he were trying not to laugh, Matthew was terrified, and Arthur felt uncomfortable. Please. Smite him. Kill him, get him out of here.

"Come on, my room's down the hall. Matt, tell us when those are ready, 'kay?"

Alfred spoke, startling the punk.

...oh God. Oh God oh God oh God, they were going to his room. Alfred's bedroom. Holy shit. Alright, Arthur, breathe, you could be cool, this would be fine. Hell, if anything, they'd just-

. . .

Oh God. They were going to do 'or whatever,' weren't they?

Wait...no. Right. Because this wasn't a date. Oh thank God.

Alfred opened a door in the hall, waving Arthur inside. It was small, cozy. Arthur couldn't help but focus on the shelf near the floor. The top was filled with books, the bottom with DVD cases. Was that Harry Potter he saw? Please be. And some horror movies he was rather partial to. There were two posters on the walls; a movie ad for 'The Dark Knight,' and some athlete. Damn it, he suddenly wished he cares about sports.

"May I...?"

"Yeah, sit anywhere."

Arthur chose the bed, sitting perfectly straight. Hands in his lap, back stiff...damn, was he expecting the Queen to walk in? His eyes drifted to his side, the comforter and sheets. Alfred slept here. He slept, and dreamed, and maybe did homework, and fucked his girlfriends and-

. . .

…fuck. Get out of his head, now, Jesus, shit-

"Dude, you can relax, you know. It's my room, not the Oval Office. Sorry for the mess, by the way. I didn't want you to think I was a neat-freak."

. . .

"Jones?"

"Yeah?"

"...why am I here?"

Arthur sounded...not frightened, more of concerned. Why was he here? Was this supposed to be like a 'getting-to-know-you,' day? Alfred hadn't been very specific. At all, really. The blonde flushed quietly, speaking with a laugh. What the hell was up with that? And he managed to look cute while doing it, too...the fucker. He just had it all, didn't he?

"Well...uh, I told you. I wanted to get to know you better. That's why."

"Couldn't you have done that at school?"

"...I figured you didn't want me to embarrass you in front of your friends."

The punk's eyes widened. Really? Could Alfred detect that much tension between him and Demitri? But...what was there to be embarrassed of?

"Um...and don't get the wrong idea, I still don't like you, but...I didn't really get the chance to thank you properly or without a fuck-you, but...thank you for helping me not get my ass kicked in the locker room. And my friends."

Arthur admitted this quietly, looking down at the floor. He heard a small chuckle.

"Don't mention it. You woulda done the same."

. . .

"...or maybe not. But I don't blame ya. No offense, but you're kinda scrawny."

Arthur scoffed, tensing up.

"Fuck you, I'm not scrawny! I could hold my own against anybody!"

"I didn't mean it in a bad way, I meant like...huh...I guess every way is a bad way. I mean, I thought it was kinda cute, but yeah. Sorry, dude."

. . .

. . .

...cute? One didn't just throw around the word 'cute.' He thought Arthur was cute? But...wait, no! What the fuck? Arthur had thought 'cute' earlier!

"I'm not cute. Shut the hell up."

"Yeah you are! You're all skinny and pale and the red hair...you're like something you'd find at Hot Topic, one of those ironic stuffed toys or something."

"You're trying to piss me off, aren't you?"

"Sure, if it means we're talking."

. . .

Alfred was right. By God, they were talking! And not doing 'or whatever.' Or maybe this was 'or whatever.'

Arthur continued speaking about anything and everything, arguing about anything and everything...music, movies, habits. He couldn't hold back the Harry Potter vibe anymore. Apparently...they really had good deal in common.

As far as the punk was concerned, they could 'or whatever' all night long.


	8. Dinner 'Dates' and Mistakes

"You did not! I don't believe you."

"It's true! It bent all the way back, and Coach told me to walk it off."

Alfred pointed his elbow. Him and Arthur were back in the truck after a quick bite of Matthew’s pancakes. The punk had to admit that it was probably the most delectable thing to have ever graced his tongue. If only the salt rinse afterward hadn't ruined the entire wonderful experience...

Now they were on the way to Andretti's. A delicious meal that would end just as painfully.

"Well then how the hell aren't you damaged? How long did that take to heal?"

Alfred looked from to road to his guest with a grin.

"A few months. And check this out."

The quarterback stretched out his arm, an audible popping of the joint cracking through the car, along with a flinch and 'Jesus!' from Arthur. Alfred's laughter followed as he put his hand back on the wheel.

"Pretty fucked up, right? The doc said I really shouldn't be doing that, but eh...I'm not really one for following orders."

Arthur nodded hesitantly before shifting back in his seat away from the door. Well. That had been something.

"What about you? Got any scar stories? I bet you have like, a long gash under your eye or something badass like that right? You got any tattoos? You seem more like a tattoo guy than a piercing guy, really."

...did this guy ever shut up?

"No. No tattoos."

Plenty of scar stories, though. Bruise stories, really. There had been the time Colin had punched him in the arm...it had been yellow and purple for a week. A few months ago was the stomach. Five days. And just recently to the jaw. The punk was willing to bet that one would be there for quite some time. Thank God for makeup.

"No stories, either. I'm not exactly the type to go out and about doing shit that gets me hurt...or killed."

Alfred paused before nodding.

"...you should come to the game tomorrow."

Arthur's attention had been recaptured as he turned back to the jock.

"I told you earlier, I hate sports."

"I know, I know, but you don't have to watch. I mean, there's plenty of...I dunno, dark corners for you to smoke in. Or talk to people."

"I don't like talking to people...and..."

Why the hell did he say 'and?' Was he actually about to tell Alfred that he'd quit smoking?

...well...why shouldn't he? The patch thing seemed to be helping; he hadn't had a craving since he'd started. It wasn't as if Arthur had quit because of Alfred. That was a stupid notion. Yes, Alfred had been an instigator, but Arthur just...they were too expensive. Yes. That was it.

Good.

"...here. Just look."

Arthur tugged down his shirt collar to reveal the nicotine patch on his collarbone. He supposed it was rather awkward, but it's not like Alfred was going to-

"You...got a shot or something?"

Alfred had looked to Arthur quickly, then just as quickly turned away. What the fuck? He looked tense. Arthur let go and put his hands in his lap. What the hell? What was that for? Was he blushing?

"No, it's a patch, dumbass..."

. . .

"I quit. Smoking, I mean...shit costs too much, so..."

There was a small silence that Alfred broke after several moments. Arthur couldn't bring his eyes up.

"Oh...well, good for you. Really."

"I wasn't looking for your encouragement."

"Just thought it'd help is all...seems like my advice did."

"What? No, no way, I did not quit because of you!"

"Sure you didn't. Was it the fear of disease that made you start running? I'm glad I could at least save one life."

"It wasn't you, you dick, don't be so arrogant!"

Alfred laughed again as they pulled into the restaurants parking lot. What the hell was so funny? Arthur hadn't said anything funny!

"Okay, dude. Calm down, we can't have you walking in looking all angry and cute and whatever."

"I am not cute, you ass!"

. . .

Arthur was dead silent, staring at the food he hadn't even gotten to pick for himself. Alfred had ordered for him; the lasagna looked delicious, but...why had he done that? Wasn't that the sort of thing someone did for a date? But this wasn't a date.

Right? It couldn't be.

He felt horrible. This restaurant was excellent, but he was underdressed. The punk was receiving stares from every which way, children asking their parents if they could have red hair, elderly woman sticking up their noses.

And normally, he just didn't care. But with Alfred...it felt like he was embarrassing the both of them. And Alfred didn't need that.

"Mattie's pancakes didn't you fill you up, did they? Cause if you're not gonna eat that, I'll have the honor."

Alfred pointed his fork at the boy across from him. Arthur shook his head hurriedly, looking back down at his untouched meal.

"...I'm hungry. Just...nothing. Leave me alone."

What? That's not what he'd wanted to say at all! Alfred's brows furrowed before his expression changed to something more apologetic.

"Crap, I knew I'd screw it up. I shoulda just let you pick something, I didn't know. We can get something else, if you-"

"No, it's not that."

Arthur was confused. He didn't know if this was a date, he didn't know if he wanted Alfred to be his friend or not, he didn't know if he wanted Alfred differently, or-

...wait...no. Not that last one. Why had he thought that?

"...I'm...you shouldn't have brought me here, okay? I look like hell, I'm not dressed right, and people are staring. The only places I'm suited for are a back alley or under a fucking bridge. I'm just embarrassing you, and you don't need that shit, so just...I don't..."

The punk only felt this when he was near Colin; fear. Why the hell was Alfred doing this to him? It was a prank, wasn't it? Head back to little teammates and girlfriend and tell them all about how the freak had actually thought they were friends, how the punk had cracked.

. . .

"Dude. What are you talking about? This place doesn't have a dress code, I'm in my letterman! How classy is that? And who cares, anyway? As long as you think you look good, it doesn't matter what other people think. Okay? Calm down. You're not embarrassing me, so stop thinking that. If I thought you were embarrassing, I wouldn't have invited you out."

Then it happened. Very quickly, very casually, Alfred reached across the table and patted Arthur's hand.

"Relax. You don’t have to impress me. I'm like… anti-sophistication, so...Arthur?"

. . .

"Hey...you okay, man?"

. . . .

Arthur had eaten his meal in hushed silence, listening to whatever Alfred said. They were in the truck again, driving home in a light rain that the punk watched quietly.

...they'd held hands.

Alright, maybe not, but Alfred had touched his hand. Twice. Arthur didn't know why he was so excited by that, but by God, he was. What a nice way to end a date.

...date.

...maybe this had been a date...

For some reason, the punk had grown used to the idea.

"Yo. Ya listening? I didn't know you could smile..."

Arthur pulled himself out of his daze, noticing they'd stopped at a red light.

"...what?"

"I can see your face in the window. You were grinning like an idiot."

The punk's face heated up under the foundation. Thank god for the dark. He shook his head vigorously.

"N-no I wasn't! You're seeing things!"

"It's okay to be happy, ya know. I had a good time, too."

"So did I, but..."

Alfred was grinning at him. Stop it. Stop that.

"But what? You had a good time. So smile. It doesn't hurt, does it? Smile!"

Without any warning whatsoever, Alfred's hands came off the wheel and onto Arthur's face, pulling his cheeks with his fingers in an uplifting smile. The punk cried out immediately, smacking the jock's hands away and tending to his bruised cheek. Fuck that hurt. Don't wince, don't tear up, that's weakness, shit, fuck-

"Whoah, you okay? I didn't mean to-"

"Shut up."

. . .

And Alfred did shut up for the rest of the ride. He pulled into Arthur's driveway after several long minutes of total silence, save for the engine and gentle raindrops on the windshield. They idled for a moment. The pale teen looked nowhere as the jock sighed.

"...are you okay?"

"Fine."

"...I mean, I know I'm strong, but I didn't think I'd-"

"Alfred, it wasn't you, okay? Just don't worry about it. Thanks for the meal."

His hand went to door handle before he noticed the lock go down.

"What do you mean don't worry about it? I hurt you, and-"

"I was already hurt, okay? Christ...I'm fine, just-"

"What happened? You can tell me...did someone hurt you? A fight?"

Arthur could hear the concern in Alfred's voice. He could also see the hand creeping closer to his own. Arthur pulled away and went for the door again.

He couldn't tell him. What could he possibly say? 'Oh yeah, my brother beats me into a pulp every now and then, no big deal.' What if the jock told someone? They'd arrest Colin, wouldn't they? And then his mother would be heartbroken; her oldest boy, arrested for hitting her little boy, and her little boy, who'd never said anything before it escalated to the authorities.

He couldn't tell him.

"Let me out."

"Arthur-"

"Let me out, Alfred."

. . .

The lock popped up, and Arthur stormed out, ignoring the rain. He heard a second slam behind him, turning around to find that Alfred was following him.

"What?"

"Can I just walk you to your door?"

"...whatever. I don't give a rat's ass what you do."

Arthur let the jock catch up to him before continuing to his door in a huff.

This night had started well and ended in disaster. Honestly, why'd he have to go and get comfortable? Why'd he have to accept Alfred's invitation in the first place? This would've never happened if he just said 'Fuck no,' and stayed home. He wouldn't have had to deal with this stupid shit, these emotions.

And what emotions? He'd felt odd around Alfred all night long. Happy, and light, and like nothing could touch him. It was strange. And he wanted to impress him, too. What the fuck was that all about?

He should've never agreed. That was that.

The two teens reached Arthur's stoop. Arthur faced Alfred and shrugged, looking at Alfred with disappointment. If anything, it was his own fault this night had gone so wrong.

"...thanks. Night."

The punk's hand went to the doorknob, but was stopped on the way by Alfred.

Within half a second, Arthur was pulled forward, and his cheek was in slight pain from the kiss it was receiving. After two more seconds, it was over, and Alfred was walking away after a quiet 'I hope you're okay.'

Even after the truck pulled away, Arthur stood rooted to the spot, more confused than ever before.


	9. Thunderstorms and Outages

. . .

. . .

Oh God.

That was a kiss.

No.

No it wasn't.

It couldn't have been.

Yeah!

Not a kiss! Alfred had said that he hoped it got better, the bruise.

Had he seen it?

Who cared?

Oh God.

The rain poured on the umbrella Arthur, Demitri and Kiku were seated under. The boys were huddled, not speaking, not really even sulking. The bags under Arthur's eyes were masked over with thick shadow; no one would have guessed that the punk hadn't slept the night before.

Arthur hadn't slept a damn bit the night before.

After Alfred had left him on the porch, the punk had had a hard time even getting to his room, his legs had been shaking so bad. Every part of him had been trembling all night long, thinking about the jock that had just fucking kissed him.

And even then, it...hadn't really been a kiss. No, that was more of a peck, or...or a...fuck, he didn't know. Not a kiss. There was nothing sexual behind it. Alfred was just wishing him well regarding the injury.

"How was the date, Arthur?"

Demitri broke the silence, starling the Brit and Asian. The rain pelted the umbrella overhead; the goth's, who'd staked it into the ground. Arthur looked up sharply, glaring. What the fuck?

"It was not a date, Dem, you know that. It was just...dinner, and his brother made shitty pancakes, and...that was it."

It almost hurt to say that Matthew's pancakes hadn't been heavenly. Arthur knew if he said so, though, it would only lead to further questions.

Da-ding.

Bzz.

Oh Christ, here we go. Arthur went for his phone, safe under their shelter. The corner of his eye told him that Demitri was doing just the same.

'Please do not take offense, but it sounds as though you are disappointed.'

"I agree with Kiku. What did you expect from the false hero of this system? We've been talking, and we both agree that you've been acting strange for awhile now."

"Oh what, you've been talking about me behind my back? What kind of fucking friends are you? Have you forgotten who saved your sorry-?"

"That is the past, and therefore irrelevant. We've had this discussion; Jones saved us, not you. Moving on, even the spirits I've consulted tell me there are dark forces present. Arthur, you-"

Arthur pushed Demitri lightly out from under the umbrella, a sudden action that made Kiku flinch.

"Just the shut the fuck up, Demitri! You don't know shit! It's always spirits this and spirits that with you! Maybe if you actually looked around you'd find something worthwhile to do! Do you have to be so damn morbid every fucking minute of the day?"

"At least I haven't tainted my body with a disgusting metal prod."

"You fuck-"

"Any room under there?"

Arthur's heart skipped a beat, forgetting the argument as they all turned to the source of the question; Alfred, smiling sheepishly with his backpack over his head. Oh, just fucking perfect.

"Hey guys...Arthur...uh...yeah, skipping Yao again. It's just notes, and-"

"Go away. There's no room."

It was the punk that spoke. His legs were curled towards his chest and his head near his knees, unable to meet eyes with the quarterback. How could he just stand there and speak normally like nothing had happened?

Maybe to him it was as if nothing had happened. What was one peck on the cheek when Alfred had probably shagged off with at least half the cheer squad? Or something to that effect?

Arthur didn't mean anything. That's why he'd done it...

He felt a sharp, unexplainable pain in his chest...fucking bastard.

The punk looked up with a stone-glare, the expression melting almost immediately as he saw the jock. Alfred looked dejected, as if the girl of his dreams had just denied his invitation to a middle-school dance.

...the hell kind of analogy was that?

"Look...hey, Arthur, I'm sorry about last night. I didn't mean to-"

"Shut up!"

What the hell was he doing? Holy shit, hadn't Alfred just said something about not embarrassing him? What the fuck? Alfred shut up very quickly. Jesus, would he stop looking like he'd just accidentally stepped on a puppy?

"...sorry, I just...I mean-"

"Shut up. I don't want to talk to you."

But they very much needed to talk...Alfred had kis-...pecked him. Pecked him, God damn it.

Alfred paused before nodding, appearing completely crestfallen.

"...okay...I'll...I'll head back to Yao's then. Might need algorithms some day..."

The jock turned and walked away, leaving behind a confused punk, an inquisitive goth, and a surprised visual-kei fan.

"...would you repeat the part where you stated nothing happened last night, Arthur? I seemed to have misheard."

Da-ding.

'Arthur, we are your friends...or rather, I am. If something were to be going on with you and Jones, you could tell me.'

. . .

. . .

"Dem, I'm borrowing this. Sorry, Kiku."

Arthur ripped the umbrella from the ground, holding it over his head as he stormed away. Kiku got up and immediately ran for the unoccupied gymnasium, lest his shoulder spikes rust.

Demitri sat in the pouring rain, watching Arthur make off with his umbrella. The goth looked skyward, the cold, Autumn drops streaking the makeup he wore proudly.

"...dark forces indeed."

. . . .

"Hey!"

. . .

"Wait up, Jesus!"

Alfred turned at the voice calling for him, squinting through the rain. An...umbrella was running towards him. A dark black umbrella. A ghost? Oh God, he knew it, the school was haunted!

...or maybe not.

"...Arthur?"

Arthur came to a halt, having been in a dead sprint until he found Alfred. He panted quietly. Fuck, was being tall also a signal for being a fast walker?

"Did you need something?"

"No, I..."

...why had Arthur bolted away from his group to chase the quarterback down? Shit! He didn't have a motive or a reason or-

"I mean...yes...what the hell was that back there? Were you...I mean-"

Arthur shivered, his shoulders having gotten some water on them from running. He could see Alfred shivering, too. After a moment, he titled the umbrella just slightly towards the jock.

"Get under here and answer me."

There was a small moment of hesitation before Alfred joined the punk under the umbrella. God, he was close...and tall. Arthur was getting wet again.

"...answer what? You never asked anything."

...damn him.

"I mean...were you really about to bring up last night in front of them?"

"Last night?"

. . .

"...you...b-before you left, you-"

"Oh...yeah..."

And here it was. Arthur had been right. The peck meant nothing, and Alfred was trying to weasel his way out of it. It hadn't meant anything after all. Why would it, anyway? It hadn't meant anything to Arthur either.

It was just a peck from Alfred...who was a smart, kind, funny, handsome-

No. Bad thoughts. Go away.

"I'm...I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you or anything, just...I-I don't really know why I did it..."

Arthur was quiet, staring straight ahead. Unfortunately for him, that was either at the umbrella's pole or Alfred's chest, and the latter was receiving the blunt of his attention.

"...then why'd you do it?"

"...I dunno...are you okay?"

"...yeah...just ..."

Another silence. Damn it, he shouldn't have done this. Who needed closure, anyway? Arthur could have gone on for the rest of his life thinking that Alfred was just teasing and making fun of him. He could live with that. He didn't need this prick, anyway.

"...never mind. I'm...Dem's getting soaked. He doesn't care about anything, so..."

Arthur turned to leave, stopped by a hand on his shoulder. Alfred's.

"Is someone hurting you?"

Arthur felt his blood run just as cold as the rain. He turned back to Alfred with a glare. Fine. He wanted to talk?

"Look, can we not talk about that now? It doesn't matter. All I want to know is why the fuck you kissed me last night. Alright? Is that too damn much to ask? I doubt your girlfriend will be very happy about that. Who the hell are you dating anyway? Whoever heard of two guys going to dinner to get know each other, anyway? You can stop pretending you actually give a shit about me or my friends now. Just go back to your friends on the team and tell 'em all how the plan failed, but don't worry, you got me anyway. I didn't sleep at all last night because of you, so...so...just...fuck off, alright?"

Despite speaking his mind, the punk didn't budge. He stared Alfred down, daring him to respond. So far all he was receiving was a slack-jawed mouth and wide eyes.

"I...what? Arthur, that...did you watch some movie or something? This isn't fucking...I dunno, 'Mean Girls' or whatever. Nothing's going on. Are you that paranoid? Why?"

The jock's voice softened as he asked Arthur the questions. The punk continued to stare at him until Alfred sighed.

"...I swear. Nothing is going on. No one else knows about last night but you and me. I was only gonna say it to your friends because I thought might have already. No one on the team knows, and my girlfriend doesn't know 'cause...I..I don't have a girlfriend."

The quarterback looked away from Arthur, looking rather shaken. Arthur blinked...what...what the hell? Alfred looked as if he were about to vomit.

"And...and I don't..."

"Alfred, are you alright? Not that I care, but you look pale, and-"

"I don't want a girlfriend, okay?"

For a moment there was only the rain falling. Alfred spoke again to a now slightly concerned Arthur.

"I mean...I like girls, they're...my friend Lizzie, dude, she's great. We play video games, and...and we like all the same stuff, but...one day she...she kissed me, and I didn't...I mean, damn, she's perfect, any guy would kill to have her, but...I didn't see her like that. Then she started dating that guy that heads the band club, and I wasn't jealous, but...I realized I didn't really care. And I kept making friends with girls, 'cause they're nice and not as...I dunno, jerky as guys are, and they all ended up hitting on me. And they were all great friends, just...I didn't...I wasn't interested like they were."

"...then I joined the team, and I was kind forced to try and make friends with the guys, and...I did. I felt relieved, but at the same time, the cheerleaders just kept coming, sayin' all this stuff about...I don't wanna say it, but...they're awful. Except Braginski's sisters. They're fine. And that one girl, but she's a freshman, plus I think her brother packs heat, and-...ah, fuck, that's not important."

Arthur had gone from slightly concerned to downright terrified. What the fuck was going on right now? What the hell was Alfred trying to say? Was he done? Please be done.

"Then there was last night...and I felt good. Like...happy, like how I felt with Lizzie before things got all fucked up. I saw you a few days ago, and I just thought that...I dunno, you stare at me a lot, so-...I asked you out. I just needed to know if I...well...when you said all that stuff about impressing me, I got worried, because I was trying to impress you, and...and then you said you were hurt and..."

The look of sickness was gone. The two teenagers were looking at each other with fear in their eyes.

"Arthur, I know we're not friends, but I've told you all this, and I really want to tell you something else, but you can't tell anybody, okay?"

...oh God.

...what the fuck! Why was this happening? Arthur found himself nodding, even though right now he just wanted to run in the opposite direction, struck dumb.

Last night hadn't meant nothing to Alfred. It had meant fucking everything.

. . .

"...Alfred?"

"I think I'm gay."

. . .

It was a hoarse whisper that was barely audible over the storm, a low boom of thunder rolling through the sky as if on cue. Arthur was startled by it, and by the fact the jock was nearly shouting now.

"And it's just...it's just fucking stupid, I mean, whoever heard of a gay quarterback? Tebow'd be ashamed, and this is gonna hurt my chances for a scholarship, right? What if the team found out, or my dad, or..."

"...you can't tell anyone...okay?"

Alfred's voice had become shaky, and Arthur was praying that rain had gotten in his eyes.

"...I-I won't..."

Before Arthur could react further, he was being hugged. The umbrella slipped from his grasp and the rain hit the both of them full-on. Icy drops.

"Thanks...thank you...I'm sorry..."

Alfred just kept squeezing him tighter and tighter. Arthur was utterly baffled.

...what had he done to deserve this? Alfred had just come out to him, and...wait, did this mean he liked him? But...what the hell? Couldn't he have done this more...quietly?

"Don't be sorry...it's alright..."

The punk patted the jock's back softly, not quite sure what else to do. He'd never really had to comfort anyone before. What would his mother do?

"Everything's alright...remember what you told me yesterday? As long as you like you, it doesn't matter what anyone else says...if they denied your scholarships, it would be discrimination, and you'd have a fantastic lawsuit to win...not only that, but you seem to have a nice family, and I'm certain they'd love you no matter what. And...I don't know who Tebow is, so I can't say anything to that, but still. It's alright."

Alfred lifted himself from Arthur's shoulder, wiping the rain off the punk's forehead. He was smiling, something that Arthur had to admit still looked brilliant no matter the weather.

"...thank you, Arthur."

"Don't thank me, I...I just-"

The punk was interrupted by a sharp gasp from Alfred.

"Shit, your face is melting!”

...the fuck? Arthur's hands flew to his face, feeling that his makeup was running. Oh...oh fuck no. Shit!

"Are those-?"

"No, shut the fuck up! Don't say anything!"

"Are those freckles?"

The jock took Arthur's face in his hands, being a bit more gentle with the right cheek, the bruised side.

"Oh my God, you do! That's adorable!"

"Nh-...shut up! They're not cute, they're awful, let go of me!"

"No way! Look at 'em all!"

Alfred had discovered the horrible secret that even Kiku and Demitri didn't know. There were a large field of freckles peppered on Arthur's cheeks, just above his cheekbones. He hated them because they reminded him of Colin. The bastard's face was coated in them. Arthur figured the best way to hide them was the foundation. The very best way. No one save for his family had a clue until this very moment.

"You can't say a word, do you hear me? Fuck, if you do-"

"I won't, I won't. But why? They're..."

Alfred's voice, filled with laughter, had suddenly died down to silence. His teasing grin was gone, his eyes falling on the bruise. They flickered back to Arthur, who'd stopped fighting.

Arthur was grateful that he'd stopped asking questions. Nothing more about the freckles, nothing more about the bruise...just...nothing...nothing but them, getting more soaked by the second.

The jock and punk started leaning towards each other in a manner that even a passerby would know would end in more than simple embrace. Arthur wasn't quite sure of what he was about to do, but...movies and television made it seem easy, so-

Ping.

"Attention students! The final day of Spirit Week is here! Please make your way to the gymnasium! Go Owls!"

"Shit."

Alfred pulled away, leaving Arthur to fall into the air before catching himself. Alfred looked around, confused.

"I...I needed to be there like, fifteen minutes ago and-"

"Y-yeah, it's fine, go ahead."

"...sorry."

Alfred darted off. Arthur watched him go about twenty feet before shouting after him.

"Hey!"

Alfred stopped on a dime, looking back to the drenched punk.

"...I'll be at the game tonight."

"...awesome!"

For the first time today, Alfred seemed like his usual, chipper self before continuing on his path to the gym. That was how he came off to Arthur on the outside, anyway, chipper and confident.

Apparently, there was far more to the jock than Arthur could have ever imagined.

. . .

Maybe there was more to himself than he'd pictured, as well.


	10. Mental Rambles and Axe Body Spray

The rain was strong enough to be heard even over a gymnasium full of chattering, screaming teenagers. At this rate, the game might just get called off...which would suck. Alfred had really been looking forward to play.

...among other reasons.

The team and squad had already been called out onto the court. Alfred F. Jones waved stiffly to the crowd, ignoring the questions from around him; 'Where the hell were you?' 'Jesus, how'd you get so damn soaked?'

"Got stuck outside skipping Yao's. Sorry, guys."

The cheerleaders did their flips and somersaults. The quarterback paid them no mind, flashing a grin that was quite forced to the crowd of adoring students.

. . .

What the hell had he just done? Had he just come out to Arthur Kirkland? Fuck! He hardly even knew Arthur! Well, Alfred knew he was trustworthy...maybe...and that despite all the theatrics the guy put on, he was actually really cute, and-

...oh damn it, stop. Stop. Guys weren't cute. Kirkland was just...he was different. Not just physically, but mentally...something was going on with him that wasn't with anyone else here. He spoke and behaved differently, a totally different mindset. The jock had no idea why, but he found it all very...not attractive, but...well, wait...was there another word for attractive?

Ugh. Fine, attractive. He found Arthur Kirkland very attractive.

...and that was fine, right? Girls told other girls they were cute or hot or whatever...what was stopping him from turning to a member of the team and telling them they looked good today?

. . .

An ass-kicking, that was what.

Fuck.

He scanned the crowd, eyes automatically going up into that dingy corner that even the janitor didn't care about. Only one person sat amongst the sea of cheering. And from the looks of it, that person had reapplied their makeup. Even from down on the court, Arthur's pale makeup shone like porcelain. His red hair catching attention like a police siren.

...and he was looking right at him.

Alfred looked away, feeling a quick rush of warmth shoot through his body, his smile lightening to something a bit more natural.

. . .

That was normal, too, right?

. .

Oh, who was he kidding? They'd been about to fucking kiss about twenty minutes ago. In the rain. What was this, 'The Notebook?' He hadn't even seen that movie and...ah, damn it. Since when had his life become some shitty soap opera?

Alfred could piece together very few things at the moment, but one aspect remained clear; if...if he was gay, then he was only gay for Arthur. It wasn't like he'd joined the team for some kind of sick ulterior motives in the shower room (eyes forward, hands to yourself), he just genuinely enjoyed football. Any sport. He loved being outdoors, getting dirt under his nails and things that...well, things he didn't think gay people typically did.

Of course, he knew no one else would believe that. Especially the team.

His eyes flickered to Arthur's corner again. Where were his friends? Was he cold? He was probably drenched, too. Eh, no 'probably.' Arthur had to have been soaked to the bone. Alfred figured he ought to go see him and apologize after the rally...maybe pick up where-

No. That had definitely been a mistake. He barely knew Arthur...they'd just been caught up in the moment. Yeah...that was it. They just needed to talk a bit...help each other with homework (did Arthur do homework?), visit each others' houses...hang out...maybe a few more dates. Then maybe...

"Hey. Jones. You okay?"

"Wha-...huh?"

"I know they got the heat cranked, but you look like you're burnin.'"

"Oh...nah, I'm fine. Don't worry."

Alfred shook his head at the linebacker. Was he flushed or something? Shit.

...his number. Arthur's cell.

There. That was a good place to start.

. . . .

God, he kept looking at him.

Arthur sat in his corner, curled up in a ball. Fuck, he was cold. How quick did hypothermia set in? Or pneumonia? Where the hell was Kiku? He really didn't give a shit where Dem was.

...had he almost kissed Alfred awhile ago? Had Alfred almost kissed him?

But...why? Why the hell would he want to kiss him? Why the hell would anyone want to kiss him? And it was in the rain, too, like some romantic movie...God, that would've been perfect.

...perfect? No, not perfect. Why would it be perfect? It's not like he'd...

...yes he had.

Arthur stopped denying; he had wanted to kiss Alfred, right there in the rain. He'd gained an entirely new respect for the jock.

Alfred was brave enough to share a secret with someone who, until recently, loathed his existence. He trusted Arthur with something that would slaughter his reputation as hero of the school, mutilate his social life...if he'd spoken of this three days ago...

...he wouldn't tell. He couldn't tell. Who would he tell anyway? Dem? Kiku? No. They would only ask how this whole situation came to be. How they'd suddenly gotten to a level where that kind of trust existed.

...was...he wasn't gay, was he? What was a kiss, anyway? People in Europe did it all time, Italians, the French...yeah!

But...he had wanted it to be more.

Damn it.

...well...Arthur didn't have a problem with gays. He wasn't some homophobic asshole, but he'd never seen himself as...oh God. Oh God, he was, wasn't he? Let's just add up to the individuality.

But it wasn't as if he were hitting on guys! Hell, half the people he looked at were either bastards or bitches. Arthur could think some girls at school were good-looking, but he'd never actually thought about approaching one. Same with guys; Kiku was a good-looking kid, but he wasn't attracted to him.

...he was attracted to Alfred, though. Very much so. How could anyone not be? His hair was golden and lovely, and the sun hit it so beautifully when he walked outside, and his skin was tan and smooth, and his eyes were just fucking gorgeous. Why did that blue not exist everywhere? It should be on ads, and the sky ought to redefine itself, and-

. . .

Oh, fuck.

Fuck.

...he wanted Alfred.

Alfred.

He was gay for Alfred.

Fuck.

The gym had emptied out. Arthur sat for a few moments before standing and hurrying to the door. The heat was on, but it didn't matter one bit when he was absolutely dripping wet.

"Arthur!"

He jumped, a shiver going through him that had nothing to do with the cold. Slowly, the punk turned around, seeing that Alfred had caught up to him.

"H-hey..."

"Hi..."

The blonde's eyes drifted over punk's body, noting the hunched posture, the crossed arms, the way the clothes were clinging to his skin like glue.

"D-did you...n-n-need something?"

Arthur spoke through chattering teeth. Fuck. Why? Just let him go. They could talk or...whatever later. Alfred cleared his throat, speaking as he rummaged through his bag.

"Um...y-yeah, I kinda...can I get your number?"

. . .

"It might be easier for me to...to, uh...ya know...I mean...would you like to...go out again...with me, sometime?"

Arthur blinked as he listened, watching as the jock pulled something from the duffel bag. He handed over a grey sweatshirt to the punk before glancing toward the wall.

"And you look cold. So..."

The Brit took the clothing gingerly, reciting the ten digits necessary to contact him with a stutter.

"I p-prefer texts. But actually text...no ch-chatspeak. I hate that shit."

Alfred laughed.

"Well damn. We might have a problem, then. Okay...hurry up and get out of that, geez. I can feel myself getting frostbite just looking at you."

. . .

"I...I-I...Jesus, Jones, I m-may be a rebel, but...b-but I have enough decency to...I know we almost...the fact that you'd even s-s-suggest-" 

"What? What are you...oh! Oh God, no, no, I meant… Jesus, Arthur, the bathroom, over there, not right here!"

Arthur's ears turned bright red. Ah, right.

"...I-I knew that. Shut up...don't be stupid."

"Go change."

Alfred pushed the punk toward the restroom, laughing softly.

"I'll text you later, okay? See ya!"

Arthur waited until he heard retreating footsteps and a door close. He was completely alone in the gym. Just him… him and Alfred's sweatshirt.

...this thing was fucking huge. It looked like it would swallow Arthur whole.

. . .

Bad thoughts. Awful thoughts, go away, shit, leave.

Within five seconds, the punk had peeled the drenched the shirt off his body and slipped on Alfred's sweatshirt. Immediately, he was warm...well, he was warm before he'd actually put it on, but...fuck it, he was warm.

It did engulf him, but it was comfortable. His hands barely came out of the sleeves. How did this look on Alfred? Had he had something dry to wear? He hadn't sacrificed his own warmth for Arthur's sake, had he?

...it smelled like Axe...like Alfred.

. . .

Okay, time to go. Arthur picked up Demitri's umbrella and headed out, trying to push the intoxicating fragrance away from his nose and the running questions from his mind.

. . . .

"Arthur, darling, where on Earth did you get that sweatshirt? That's much too big on you!"

"...Spirit Week."

More lies.

"Oh dear, you're still sore? Hold on, let me get you a lozenge. And really? Hm. Budget must be low if they don't have an owl on them. Oh well, it's about comfort, not fashion. Here you are. Lemon, your favorite. Go on up to bed, dear, I'll bring you up some tea. I love you, darling."

"Love you, too, Mum."

Arthur lay in his bed, a hot cup of tea on his side table. He took a few sips, finding the heat was somehow soothing on his tongue. He'd have to do his rinse later...God damn, he hated this thing.

...Alfred thought it was cool, though. That was a plus. His mind wandered to the jock's tattoo...that red heart, right on his perfectly sculpted collarbone. He'd like to see it again...the detail was amazing, and it defintely must've taken a good bit of strength to have it done, especially since it was filled and not just an outline, and damn it, he'd really just like to kiss it or lick it or bite it to see what kind of sounds the jock would make or-

. . .

Whoah, fuck. No. Nonono, absolutely fucking no. They hadn't even kissed yet. They hadn't even done...anything yet. They needed to start off slow...a few more dates, a hug...a kiss or two, handholding, a rough fuck under the bridge, more trust, better-

. . .

Shit, the porn was having more of an effect on him than he realized. That box under his bed hadn't been helping him recently anyway. No more of that shit.

The punk lay in his bed, curled up into a ball, exhausted and flustered. Too many things had happened today. He'd almost been kissed...he'd gotten soaked...he'd given his number and Alfred and gotten the jock's sweatshirt in return...God, he could just drown in the Axe-

Da-ding.

Arthur looked over to his phone, picking it up from the table...an unknown number? He frowned, flipping it open.

'r u bzy 2nite? game got called 4 rain. =P'

...oh...Alfred. How quaint. Arthur sat up stiffly, his thumbs flying over the keys.

'Didn't I tell you that I hated chatspeak?'

'that dsn't answer my ?'

Arthur groaned. Really? Stupid...ugh...

'I'm not free if you keep this up.'

There was a considerable pause before the punk's phone buzzed again.

'Sorry. Game got called. Field's too wet. Wanna see a movie?'

...a movie? Another date? Already? That sounded great! Fantastic! Arthur grinned, wiping it off as he calmed down, typing rapidly. He didn't want to seem desperate or anything.

'Depends. What's out?'

Another lengthy pause. Jesus, had he never texted properly before?

'Paranormal Activity 3 came out. It's on at eight. How about that?'

Arthur stared. He rather liked horror films...especially ones that made him rather frightened. And he'd heard good things about this one.

'Sounds decent. Pick me up?'

'Sure. Six good? We can get something to eat before we see it.'

Arthur's heart was racing. This was fantastic! They had another date already! And to a movie! He'd definitely have to settle down before Alfred got here. It was strange, how quickly he'd grown accustomed to all this; he'd hated Alfred a few days ago. Now he was texting him, accepting dates, wanting to kiss him...more than that.

'Fine.'

'gr8! c u l8r. ;)'

'Alfred, stop that.'

. . .

'Alfred, I know you're there. Knock that off.'

. . .

Arthur huffed and tossed his phone to the side, getting no response. Dumbass.

...oh God. He had a date tonight. One that he knew was a date, without any doubts.

What the hell was he going to wear?


	11. Crunching Leaves and Real Spectacles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for the short chapter. I'm planning a good bit for the next one; this one was sort of padding that wouldn't have gone well added along. ^^' Anyway, please forgive me and please enjoy!

"Fucking...God damn it, shit."

Four sweaters flew over Arthur's shoulder into the growing pile of clothing in the middle of his room. He'd essentially stripped his closet down to the bare rack, and even now, fifteen minutes before six, he had no idea what he was going to wear.

...on his date.

"On my date."

The punk repeated those words a few times. He had a date tonight. A date with Union Valley's quarterback. A date with Alfred F. Jones. A guy.

A boy.

Two boys, on a date. Dinner and a movie.

"Fuck."

It wasn't as if Arthur were nervous of anything. Why the hell would he be? Yes, he...appreciated Alfred, his behaviors, his personality, but...nervous? Him? Never. He'd taken a shower, of course, freshened up.

Though this shower had been a bit more extensive than normal. Arthur was fairly certain that he'd scrubbed off four layers of skin, particularly on his face. He'd taken more time on his makeup, replacing his technique of merely smearing on the foundation cream by using an actual brush. Painted, almost, like a doll. It looked smoother, more natural.

And there wasn't a freckle in sight.

Coupled with the expertly dusted eyeshadow, Arthur Kirkland had never looked better; a pale face with bright red hair. The effect? A visual bombshell that would surely get heads turning.

. . .

But what the fuck was he going to wear?

. . . .

"Fuck, damn it, son of a bitch!"

On the other side of the social spectrum, Alfred F. Jones was also having an exceedingly difficult time in choosing his attire for the date. His first real date with a guy.

Last night hadn't really counted...he'd pissed Arthur off and kinda screwed over the whole time.

Should he wear something black? Would Arthur like it if he wore something dark? Or red, maybe?

He'd never really had to think about this before. Alfred had been on dates before, but they'd never been this nerve-wracking. One stuck out; some girl had invited him to the park in the fifth grade. She'd gotten pissed off because he hadn't held a door for her. 'Some gentleman you are!'

Alfred had been fucking ten.

There was a light knock of the door, startling Alfred from his confusion.

"Al? Ya in there?"

"Yeah. Come on in, ya ain't gotta knock."

Matthew stepped in, taking notice immediately of the massive pile of clothing on the floor. He raised an eyebrow, looking to the floor at his brother.

"It's five-thirty. Didn't you say you were going somewhere? What's with all the clothes?"

Alfred swallowed, standing up and surveying the damage. Yikes...he'd pulled more than he'd thought out. He forced a laugh.

"Uh...nothing, just uh...I thought I ought to clean out the closet...reorganize, Spring Cleaning and all."

"It's October."

"...better late than never."

Matthew stared at Alfred for a moment before sighing, sitting on the bed.

"You can say if you have a date, ya know. I've kinda learned to just accept you're better with girls than me."

. . .

The bitter irony. Alfred frowned at his younger brother, crouching down to dig through the pile.

"Why don't you go hang out with Gilbert? It's Friday night, you shouldn't be cooped up in the house."

"Eh...he's doing something with his brother today. I think."

Alfred nodded.

Really, if there were anyone with actual problems, it was probably Matthew. The poor guy was great; nice, funny, just as good-looking as Alfred (perk of being nearly identical twins), a better cook than even their mother...yet he always seemed to be alone. The two would go to parties together, but it was almost as if blended in with the wallpaper. Gilbert was a good friend of his, but...the guy was kind of a hell-raiser.

Alfred spoke, deciding on a white t-shirt and his letterman. The jeans he was wearing already would be fine.

"Don't worry, man. Something good'll happen soon. I got a feeling."

"Yeah, says you..."

Alfred laughed, grabbing the wallet on his dresser on the way to the door.

"Come on, trust me! I'm your older brother, I know these things!"

He continued down the stairs and out the house, grinning as he ignored the shout of 'You're only older by five minutes!'

. . . .

Arthur popped out of his room and down to the kitchen; his makeup was perfect, his hair was as managed as it was ever going to get, and as far as clothes went, he'd gone with layers. A black long-sleeve shirt was under his white Rolling Stones shirt, and his favorite black skinny jeans had never looked better.

"Mum?"

"Yes, darling?"

"May I rake the leaves?"

"...why...o-of course you can dear, but whatever for?"

"I don't need a reason to help around the house, do I?"

"No, I suppose not...rake to your heart's content...and don't be afraid to clean the gutters, if you feel ambitious!"

"Alright, Mum. I'm going to the cinema later, alright?"

"Have fun, dear!"

Arthur's plan had went off without a hitch. Now he could wait for Alfred to show up without appearing like he was waiting for Alfred to show up. Score one for the punk! He hurried outside, past a questioning Colin in the living room, and began raking. He had about ten minutes until six.

Ten minutes until his date.

...with Alfred.

He raked tensely, teeth chattering a bit from the cold. He'd contemplated wearing Alfred's sweatshirt, but one, it was far too big, and two...he knew if he did, he'd probably have to give it back later.

Arthur didn't want to give it back just yet.

The punk worked hard, getting every least leaf in the pile, taking extra special care with the golden ones...for...no particular reason, of course.

Ten minutes passed.

Six o'clock came. The leaves were in a massive pile, and Arthur was leaning on the rake. He looked at his phone, worry growing in his stomach. An even thicker knot formed as he read the display.

6:01 

...Alfred wasn't coming, was he? It had just been a joke, all of it. He hadn't actually cared about Arthur...he'd just been trying to get his goat. Fuck. Fuck him. That stupid son-of-a-

. . .

...Oh. There was his truck! It was coming here, right now! The punk turned around, pretending he hadn't seen. Of course he hadn't seen, it wasn't as if he had come out here to wait or anything, not at all. Alfred would pull up, get his attention, and Arthur would turn around and say something cool.

'Oh. Didn't see you there.'

'Here already? I didn't hear you pull up.'

Yes. This was an excellent plan.

The brakes screeched into his driveway and a door opened. The punk continued 'raking' until he heard a door slam behind him. He turned around, leaning on the gardening tool cooly like someone in a movie.

"Well, hello, I didn't-"

. . .

...whoah.

Fuck.

"You didn't what? Ya know, people say Brits talk better, but you sure don't, dude."

Alfred stood in Arthur's driveway, grinning. He looked good, just as good as he always did. White teeth, perfect hair...but...

"You...when did you-"

"Oh. Oh yeah. These?"

The quarterback put his hands to his face, removing the pair of glasses Arthur had never seen him wear until this moment.

"Yeah, they're prescription. I'm kinda supposed to wear 'em all the time but...they're not exactly the best accessory with helmets and bein' thrown to the ground, ya know?"

"...yeah."

"It's kinda half the reason I get so close to you all the time...like yesterday with the freckles, and all that."

"..okay..."

They were spectacular. Those glasses made the biggest difference to Arthur. They made Alfred, who already seemed like a well-rounded individual, look more...intelligent. Sophisticated.

...fucking...sexy as all hell...Arthur was nearly speechless.

"Ya ready to go? I mean, you're doing the whole 'pretending to not wait' thing, which is adorable, so-"

Arthur interjected with a sharp noise of protest.

"What're you talking about? I'm not doing anything like that!"

"Yeah you are! Dude, you watch way too many movies. Lucky for you, so do I."

"Oh shut up..."

Alfred laughed hard. The punk rolled his eyes and hurried over to the truck. Well that had gone perfectly. Damn glasses had thrown him off...perfect windows into the blue sky that were his eyes...

The quarterback quickly overtook him, opening the car door on the passenger side, looking quite apprehensively to the punk.

"...after you."

Arthur stared at him for a moment before climbing into the truck, sending a quiet smile Alfred's way. Well...chivalry did still exist.

"Thanks."

The American smiled right back, blushing slightly.

"No prob."

He slammed the door behind Arthur, walking around behind the pickup. In this last moment to himself, he pumped his fist. That had been perfect; Arthur was flattered and impressed, Alfred had class, and as of now, he was a gentleman.

Fuck everything if he'd made that same mistake from fifth grade.


	12. Candy and Bittersweetness

...why was Arthur staring at him? Had Alfred broken out again? Shit, he had, hadn't he? The quarterback drove just over the speed limit, desperately trying to start a conversation with his date.

...Arthur Kirkland was his date.

"Uh...you look...nice."

To his despair, the punk beside him only nodded and mumbled a 'Thanks,' continuing to stare at his driver like a love-struck idiot.

...wait, was he a love-struck idiot? Oh God...

"Hey, um...not to sound like...rude, or something, but...do I have something on my face or-?"

Arthur snapped to attention, shaking his head and averting his eyes instantly. Even through the makeup, Alfred could make out just the smallest hint of color on his cheeks. Mostly on his ears, though,

"N-no, nothing at all, I just...I thought I did, but...no. No you don't."

"...'kay..."

. . .

Drives to dates weren't supposed to be dead silent like this. They were supposed to be fun...flirty, maybe. He'd already complimented him, so now what?

"l mean, really, you look great. You didn't gussy up just for me, did ya?"

Much to his delight, that had apparently set Arthur off.

"Of course I didn't, I always look like this! It's not like...I mean, yes, I did spend a bit more time with my hair than usual...but that doesn't mean...oh just shut it!"

Arthur crossed his arms and pouted in the other direction, clearly upset at having been beaten. Alfred just stared. Jesus, he looked like a kid who'd been told 'No cookies before dinner.' How did he do that? What was he, seventeen? Alfred knew his own pleading faces no longer worked on his mother...

And how did the punk manage to look so intimidating yet precious?

"...you're a senior, right?"

"By years, yes. Mark-wise, I might as well be a sophomore. We're all failing...except Kiku."

That's when he'd mainly started cutting classes, or least that's what Alfred assumed.

"But he skips, too, right? I see him with you guys all the time. Plus I've never seen him in the halls."

"Online courses. I dunno how he does it, but he does. Straight A's. Anything less and his mother would flip shit. Asians, you know? At least that's what I think, anyway."

"...I...I guess. Why skip, though?

"'Cause I hate it. Like I need to know trigonometry or what some dead guy actually meant when he wrote a poem about flowers. How the fuck is that going to help me in the real world? It's Friday, can we not talk about school?

"...yeah. Sorry."

How could Arthur say that? School was awesome! Or maybe he just liked learning about new things...except math, but otherwise, Alfred loved school. He got to see his friends, play on the team, get all sorts of new stuff in his head...

...of course, maybe the system wasn't quite the same for people like Arthur.

"...what do you like to do?"

"Eh. Not much. I enjoy films, books...there's a bridge we go to sometimes to hide out. Other than that, not much. You'll learn very quickly, I'm never happy."

"Aw, come on! That's not true! You were happy when I asked you out earlier!"

"No I wasn't!"

Alfred looked from the road to Arthur, putting on a mask of hurt. A test.

"...really?"

The punk's hard features of annoyance softened, something more apologetic and concerned.

"No, that's not...I mean, I wasn't happy, just...excited. I was excited..."

The quarterback grinned. Got him. Target hit.

"Knew it."

"...you ass!"

Arthur flushed again, shifting completely in the seat to the point where his back was facing Alfred from the passenger seat. So the guy was just a big softie putting on a front.

"You know, you look cute when you do that."

The punk stopped immediately, folding his hands in his lap.

"...that, too."

"Fucking stop!"

. . .

After a small game of back-and-forth swearing and complimenting, the two had arrived at a small pizza parlor. Alfred had ordered the both of them large slices, pepperoni and sausage for himself, whereas Arthur had gone...exotic.

He found himself unable to eat just looking at the toppings the punk had chosen.

"Is it...ya like it?"

"Mhm."

The quarterback tore his eyes away, focusing on his own meal. Arthur seemed to have quite the stomach...

"Though I wish you would've told me where we were going, I could've paid my share here. I brought my wallet and all."

"Nah, don't worry about it. You're my date, it's my treat. Okay?"

Remember Al, it's just common courtesy to pay for a lady on a date. She took all that time getting ready just for you, the least you can do is make it up to her. She shouldn't have to worry about a thing.

Arthur wasn't a chick, but the quarterback's father's principle still held truth, right? Clearly Arthur had taken time out of his day to look better than usual; he could tell just from the makeup.

"I'm not a girl, Alfred..."

"Yeah, but-"

Arthur interrupted him curtly, taking the jock by surprise.

"I don't feel comfortable with you dropping money for me. I don't eat out often, but still. We're both guys, so those stupid little traditions don't exactly apply anymore. That, and I'm certainly not going to be to lesser one here. Neither of us is.

. . .

"...may I at least pay for the movie? It'd be fifty-fifty that way."

Alfred watched him for a long time, trying to sort out his values, his father's vaules. Everything he'd been taught about dating had been trampled in the dust, but...it wasn't like what Arthur was saying was bad...it actually made a lot of sense. They weren't exactly doing the traditional 'thing' anymore...

...Arthur had such pretty eyes, too. Pretty wasn't a word Alfred used very often, but that seemed to be the only word acceptable for them. They were such a pretty green...they were much more vibrant a color than the field, and they'd upgraded to AstroTurf! He was fairly certain there weren't any leaves that color, either...why hadn't he seen anything like it before?

"O-okay. No problem."

And now another lovely sight graced Alfred's vision; Arthur's smile. Small, like he was trying to hide it, but perfect.

"Thank you."

The punk returned to his pizza, munching happily on one of the anchovies. Alfred smiled, returning his own slice before he had the chance to vomit.

"...I can still buy concessions for us, though, right?"

"Yes, yes whatever, God."

. . . .

"...Jesus Christ."

Arthur watched in mild awe and mild disgust as Alfred carried their concessions through the lobby. The ticket purchasing had gone off without a hitch, but this...this was just frightening.

One extra-large popcorn bucket, two extra-large drinks (a Coke and a water), Skittles, M&M's, Raisinettes, a plastic tray brimming with nachos and cheese, and a pretzel.

And he was carrying it all with such perfect precision, Arthur could tell that this wasn't the first time this monstrosity of invading the snack bar had occurred.

"Are you sure that's enough?"

"Why? Ya think we need more?"

"...I was being sarcastic. Here, at least let me carry some of it."

The punk took the popcorn and his own drink, balancing the box of Skittles on top of the cup. Did he eat like this all the time? How the fuck wasn't he a blimp? How could he be a quarterback with this kind of a diet? No wonder he'd wanted to pay for it, Arthur would've said fuck no to all this.

"Come on, we're gonna be late."

Alfred sped ahead, leaving Arthur jogging to catch up. How the hell was he not dropping everything?

The banner to their specific theater was just up ahead. Alfred somehow managed to open the door and was holding it for Arthur.

"After you."

The punk rolled his eyes, going over the items his date was holding. Instead of walking through into the dark theater, he pressed his back against the door, putting his weight on it to hold it open. He jerked his head for Alfred to move.

"You need it more. Go on."

The jock opened his mouth to protest but stopped, shrugging as he walked inside the cool room. Arthur hurried to follow him, listening to the hushed whispers from Alfred. They'd come in during a preview. Good.

"How 'bout front row?"

"Absolutely not. I don't want to break my neck. Let's go with the middle."

"Awesome."

The two boys hurried off to the upper levels, scooting in past other couples and parents who had brought children (how irresponsible) until they found two empty seats dead center. How perfect!

Arthur set his cup in the holder and the popcorn in his lap, watching as Alfred laid out the other snacks around expertly. Drink in the holder, nachos on the armrest. The jock opened both the Skittle and M&M boxes, pouring the fruit-flavored candies with the chocolate ones. He shook the box well and good before placing it on the opposite arm rest. The Raisinettes went on the floor, and the pretzel stayed in his hand.

"Matt loves those. Dunno why. Want a surprise?"

Alfred shook the box of mixed candies to Arthur, who waved his hand dismissively.

...was this guy a lunatic?

"I like 'em both, but I can never choose. So I mix 'em. That way I can have both, but I won't know when!"

"Makes sense."

It didn't make a goddamn bit of sense.

The screen went black, and the movie began. Alfred was nearly bouncing with anticipation, whereas Arthur felt underwhelmed. He enjoyed horror films, but frankly, the second one had just...sucked. It had sucked ass. Why would a third be any better?

. . .

. . .

...alright, maybe this one was better. The punk was clutching the armrest fairly tightly. The babysitter was in trouble...the babysitter was always in trouble in these things.

"She's dead soon, right?"

Arthur whispered to Alfred, looking over to him for the first time since the movie had started.

. . .

...holy shit.

Arthur's eyes widened, completely losing interest in whatever was going on in the movie. Alfred looked utterly terrified. His legs were curled up in the seat, his arms tucked around them. Was he shaking? His lips were moving, but Arthur couldn't tell very well what he was saying. A bright point came on the screen, and suddenly he knew.

'It's just a movie.'

Alfred was saying 'It's just a movie' over and over again.

Fuck! If he was so scared, then why the hell did he want to come to see the damn thing? Arthur looked to screen...yes, it was scary, but...but fuck, it wasn't that bad!

"...hey."

The punk put a hand on Alfred's elbow, making his date jump about a foot.

"Wh-what?"

"It's just a movie...alright? Relax."

Alfred watched Arthur for a moment before putting his feet back down on the floor and his hands on the armrests. Arthur sighed and went back to watching the movie. Damn, something had happened. The babysitter was still alive, but clearly she looked spooked.

It was the punk's turn to be spooked now, as a mysterious force clutched his hand. His head whipped to look the demon in the face, only to find it was Alfred's hand.

. . .

It was Alfred holding his hand.

Arthur looked again toward the jock, finding that the quarterback's eyes were fixed dead on the screen. He still looked frightened, but even in the dark, Arthur could see the blush staining his cheeks.

...this was normal behavior...and...and no one was looking at or judging them...

The Brit turned his hand over, intertwining his fingers with Alfred's, palm to palm. Arthur gave his date's hand a light squeeze; 'it'll be alright.'

His stomach did a small flip when the same force of pressure was given right back.

. . .

"Holy fuck, that was messed up, with the mom, and...Jesus..."

Alfred carried the popcorn bucket out. It was empty of it's intentional product; the carton was filled with their other refuse, the nacho tray, the candy boxes and cups. Everything save for the box of Rasinettes. Matthew would be thrilled.

Arthur nodded. That had indeed been quite the film...much better than the shitty second one...he looked to Alfred, who still looked rather shaken and pale.

"...you know, we didn't have to go see it. Had I known it was going to scare you-"

"What? No way, dude, I wasn't scared!"

"You were holding my hand pretty tightly..."

Arthur's voice softened as they exited the lobby, out into the night. He shivered. Jesus, it'd gotten colder, hadn't it? Fuck fall. Why hadn't he brought a jacket? At least it had stopped raining.

"I...I thought you were scared and wanted to protect you."

"Maybe I don't need protecting."

Suddenly, it was warm. Very warm. Arthur looked around, seeing that he was now wearing a letterman jacket. Alfred had draped the coat carefully over the punk, who looked up at him with shock.

"...I parked far, okay? You looked cold."

"But you're wearing short sleeves..."

And damn, did it look good.

"Eh, don't worry about it. Come on."

Now one of those arms was draped over Arthur's shoulders as they walked, catching him completely off-guard. Oh God. Oh God, what was this? What?

"Alfred, you don't have to give me your jacket, if you're cold, just-"

"It's not cause I'm cold."

. . .

"...ah. Alright then."

They walked in silence. Arthur smiled softly at the pavement below, a warm rush going through him.

. . . .

Okay, maybe it had been from the cold, but still. Arthur was happy. Alfred grinned down at his date, moving quickly towards the truck and pulling out his keys. After opening the door for the punk, he hopped in the driver's seat and sped off, trying to put the movie out of his mind.

"So...did you have a good time?"

He glanced over to Arthur, who was still wearing the letterman. He looked so damn cute in it; the thing was way to big for him.

"I did. Did you?"

Alfred grinned, sending a warm smile over his date's way.

"I've never said this before, but...I'm glad the game was called. You're way more fun."

...there went his ears again, spiking up to a red as bright as his hair.

"That's not true...you were just bored."

"You bet. And my first idea was to call you."

"...well...thank you. For everything."

He looked so tense. Alfred shrugged.

"Not everything. You paid for the movie, after all. I just bought us some lousy pizza."

"Are you kidding? That was the best pizza I'd ever had!"

...oh God, really? Alfred clearly underestimated the 'never ate out much.'

"Well, then good, We're both happy."

He pulled into Arthur's driveway, idling for a moment before stepping out and opening Arthur's door. His date stepped out, handing over the letterman with something like reluctance.

"And before you ask, yes, you may walk me to the door."

"...cool."

Alfred wondered if taking Arthur's hand again would be a bit much. It was the first date, after all. Would he like that?

The two reached the stoop, the porch light triggering from movement. Arthur was smiling, and Alfred simply couldn't get enough of it. He'd only ever seen the punk scowl, or frown, or more recently, pout. He looked cute when he was angry, adorable when upset, but when that look of comfort, happiness? Relaxed or whatever? It was getting hard for the jock to breathe.

"...I had a great time. Thanks for inviting me."

"Any time...thanks for uh...ya know, putting up with-"

"You being a big chicken? Don't worry, it's no trouble."

"I'm not a chicken!"

Alfred was surprised yet again when Arthur laughed. A musical, though a bit nasally sound, that sounded light and carefree, and it was solely responsible for making the jock's heart skip a beat. The punk stopped and slapped a hand over his mouth, cursing under his breath.

"Don't say a word."

"...I-I don't think I've ever heard you laugh before."

"Shut up! It sounds terrible, I know, so just-"

"I like it."

Alfred took Arthur's hand, speaking the whole truth.

"...I like you..."

How could Arthur think so poorly of himself? His freckles were precious, and his laugh was incredible, and damn, did he have spunk. Spunk? Since when did he use the word 'spunk?' Whatever, Arthur had it. And his hair was cool as hell, and no one but Matt had ever wanted to deal with his fear of scary movies, and...just...

. . . .

"Mm-"

. . .

...he was kissing him.

Alfred was kissing him.

Oh God.

Oh God what the fuck? What was he doing, holy shit. What. What. His eyes were wide open, seeing that Alfred's were closed, and his face was about as red as a cherry.

Arthur didn't want to imagine how he must've looked.

...but...it was nice. Alfred's touch was gentle, and...sweet. Certainly not what he was used to.

His eyes slid shut slowly, clasping Alfred's hand tightly while the other went to his date's cheek. He found this was a bit easier if he stood on his toes, so he did. Damn his height.

After a few more seconds, the two boys broke apart, the jock's hand slipping up to the punk's arm.

"...uh..."

"Wow."

"Y-yeah, wow..."

"Very...very much, wow."

They stared at each other, smiling like idiots.

"Was that...?"

"Yes."

Arthur's first kiss, and it belonged to Alfred.

...and that was just fine with him. That had been amazing.

"I'll...see ya Monday?"

"Of course."

"...'kay. Night."

"Good night."

The punk watched Alfred go, still grinning like a fool. Of course, the cold was getting the better of him, so perhaps watching him through the window would be just fine. Arthur slipped into his house and darted to the window, peering from behind the curtain.

He watched as Alfred got into the truck and slammed the door. Through the windshield, he could just make out the quarterback punching the air, and it looked as if he was shouting something. Arthur stifled a laugh, staying at the window until the truck and headlights were out of sight.

"Well ho-ly shit. So dressin' like a queer wasn't enough, was it? Fuck."

The punk jumped a foot, turning around as his blood ran cold. Colin sat in the easy chair opposite him, smoking a cigarette. How the fuck had he not noticed him? Had he seen anything? Shit!

"What...what're you-"

"So what's his name? He has a name, right? The guy you were just sloshin' spit with?"

. . .

Fuck.

Fuck, no...

"Ya know, I always had a feelin'...you just always came off kinda faggy, ya know? And I'll say 'faggy' 'cause he's American, right?"

"Shut the fuck up, Colin."

"No, no, I think you should. Mum went to bed about an hour ago...wouldn' wanna wake her up. And how would I explain? 'Specially all that fuckin' laughin.'"

. . .

"...fuck you. Get bent."

Arthur bolted up the stairs to his room, ignoring the next remark from his brother's mouth; "Isn't that what you ought to be doing? Getting bent?"

...shit...shit...

He sat in his bed, curled up tight. Fuck everything. Nothing could ever be perfect. He'd gotten too comfortable, that was the problem.

Da-ding.

Arthur's head whipped to his phone, snatching it up immediately.

'I had a great time. :)'

. . .

'Me, too. I'm going to bed, alright? I think I have a headache.'

'Oh. :( Okay. Get better. Night!'

'Good night.'

Next to it was a small heart. A less than sign and the number '3.'

Arthur stared at the phone, tossing it to side before covering himself up.

Headache his ass.

He'd be lucky if he didn't throw up.


	13. Escaping and Turtle Shells

'U feelin' N E better 2day?'

. . .

'I mean, you feelin' any better today?'

. . .

'Arthur?'

. . .

'You're not throwing up, are you? :('

. . .

'Sorry for texting you if you're throwing up.'

Arthur's phone continuously buzzed for the remainder of the weekend. The device would vibrate and shift just slightly on his side table, ignored by its owner.

"Arthur, dear? Are you hungry? You haven't come out all day, darling."

There was a light knock from his mother at the door. Arthur mumbled an "I'm alright" before curling back up in his bed.

"Alright, dear. Just tell me if you need anything. I love you."

There were retreating footsteps. Arthur sighed in relief, wishing to God for the first time that his mother hated him. If she hated him, there would nowhere to go with all this. No up, no down. Just a same level response to everything. Colin would have no reason to hold all this over the punk's head, and...and...

. . .

The phone buzzed again, actually falling off the table now. Arthur glanced down the floor, sighing before leaning over the mattress to pick it up and flip it open. Alfred was probably worried. He hadn't texted the jock at all the day before, and Sunday had arrived. Arthur supposed he'd be worried, too, if the last text he received from someone after a date was 'I don't feel well.'

'Aint'cha hungry, Artie? Why don't you go 'do lunch' or whatever it is you people do?'

The punk stared at the screen for a moment longer before deleting Colin's text and composing another one. One for Alfred.

'Are you busy today?'

. . .

. . .

Damn it, he'd just been texting him like crazy! Why wasn't he-?

'Nah, nothing going on. You feeling any better?'

Arthur let out a small breath before replying. Thank God.

‘Yeah. Do you want to hang out or something today? I'm bored as hell...'

. . .

'Sure! :D Want me to come get you now?'

'No no, you're not that far from me. I'll walk.'

Anything to prevent Colin from seeing them again. Wait, could he leave? What if he said something to his mother while he was out? What would she do? His mother never seemed the resentful, type, but...oh God. He better text Alfred and say he can't anymo-

'I'm already on the way. I was at the grocery store.'

. . .

Fuck.

'Alright. Great, thanks. See you in a bit.'

...so then there was nothing to do but wait. Arthur supposed he could slip out, unnoticed...meet Alfred in the street so that he didn't have to pull up and draw attention. Yeah...yeah that worked! He leaped out of bed to get dressed, still in clothes he'd worn around the house yesterday.

The punk got up and out of his room immediately, headed for the stairs. He had to make it out and around the block before Alfred got here.

Of course...he must look a sight. Arthur detoured into the bathroom; it had been a day since he'd adjusted himself. This shit had to be washed off, reapplied...ugh. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered. If he broke out again...

Grey water ran down the drain as he scrubbed off the foundation and liner, getting every last bit before examining himself in the mirror.

...how could Alfred like these nasty little things? What purpose did freckles have, anyway? Were they blemishes that never grew into full...blemishes? Ugh. They were awful. Damn his heritage. He knew it must've come from his father, because his mother's skin was completely free of any kind marking or mole, save for some crow's feet that were starting to come in with age. But that was natural.

"...he's just trying to flatter you."

The punk shook his head, going through the cabinet for his cream. After examining the product for tampering (Colin would never be forgiven for the itching powder incident), he dabbed some on his fingers and-

-dropped the small jar out of shock from a loud blare from outside. What the fuck was that?

"Arthur! Did you invite a friend over? I don't remember Demitri getting a truck."

"Artie must'a made a new friend, Mum! Let's go introduce ourselves."

...It was Alfred. Alfred was honking. Idiot! Shit, he hadn't been quick enough!

...damn it, shit, he couldn't do this now. Arthur bolted out of the bathroom, face stripped clean and clear of any product, and down the stairs past his mother and brother.

"Yes, a friend, I'm going out today. I'll call you when I'm coming home, love you, goodb-"

"Arthur, Arthur, slow down! Did you make a new friend dear?"

Colin spoke up, masking his sneer quite well with an expression like surprise.

"Yeah, little bro! Who is he? That's a pretty nice truck...nice build, great tires...backseat's probably spacious and accessible-"

"He's from school. I really need to go."

He turned, ignoring the questions and getting outside as quickly as he could, his exposed face burning with color.

"...well that was odd...Colin, he wasn't wearing any makeup, was he?"

"Maybe he decided to go au naturel today, Mum."

. . . .

Alfred grinned as he saw Arthur come out of the house. Good, he'd been...waiting...why was he glaring?

The passenger door opened and slammed as the punk slipped in, spitting the word 'Drive' to the jock. Alfred shrugged before backing out into the street, en route for home.

"Is...are you okay?"

"Why did you honk? I would've seen you!"

"I...I dunno, I..."

Alfred paused, leaning over to Arthur with wide eyes.

"You're not wearing any-!"

"I know, okay, please, just get away from my house."

. . .

Alfred drove, mind muddled with thoughts. Mostly bad ones. Was Arthur mad? Was Arthur mad at him? Why? Had he texted too much? Or...

...oh...

"Um...is this about...I mean, I'm...I'm sorry, dude, I thought you wanted to, too, and-"

"It's not about the kiss, Alfred...I mean...it's about the kiss, but not...ugh. Can we just talk when we get wherever we're going?"

"...yeah, of course."

The drive was tense. Arthur looked pissed off, and...really cute, what with all his freckles like that, but Alfred knew that probably wouldn't be the best thing to say right now. That, and the bruise was very clearly visible now...large and brownish.

What had happened? Was he still sick?

He pulled into the driveway, hurriedly slipping out to open Arthur's door. The punk had beaten him to it, however, jumping out and storming to the house with Alfred in hot pursuit.

"Arthur, what happened?"

"Is your family home?"

"Nah, Dad's workin', and Mom...I think today is her yoga. Matt's out with Gilbert. You know Gil, right?

Alfred received no answer. The jock's concern grew ever-higher as he opened the door to let his guest in. Was this another date? The punk stepped into his home and immediately sat on his couch. The jock noticed that the boy kept touching his own face, as if he'd undergone some sort of transformation.

…Perhaps he had. Without the white coating he still looked pale, but...still. It was a massive difference.

Alfred sat down carefully beside him, watching the punk fidget.

"Um-"

"My brother saw us."

. . .

"Huh?"

"My brother, Colin, he saw us...Friday, when you brought me home."

Alfred's eyes widened. Colin. Arthur had mentioned him briefly the other night, their first night in his room. A simple answer to 'You got any siblings?' 'Yeah, a brother. Colin.'

"Wait...wait what do you mean he saw us?"

Alfred could feel a knot in his stomach...someone had seen them? Arthur's brother had seen them? But...what? What did that mean? He didn't know anyone at school, did he? What if he told Arthur's mom, and what if Arthur's mom called his mom, and...oh God.

Suddenly Arthur started off, rapid speed.

"I walked in the house and he was sitting there like fucking...I don't know, Doctor Evil or some shit, sitting there like lookin' all high and mighty and then he starts asking who you were and why we were...he said, 'sloshing spit'' which is fucking disgusting, we didn't even use tongue, which I guess would be fine, but that's not important, I mean, he saw us , Alfred, and then he started goin' off about my mum and how she'd probably...he's not dropping it, and I felt like I was gonna puke, and then I wanted to get out for awhile, and I tried getting my makeup ready but then you fucking honked and they heard and saw you and Colin was being a fucking ass and...and..."

The punk hid his face between his knees, curling up on the couch.

"...God damn it."

. . .

Alfred watched him for a moment, his self-concern turning straight to Arthur. He was the one in trouble here, for now, anyway. The jock shifted quietly, draping an arm over the punk. The shorter boy tensed up automatically, unused to physical contact that wasn't painful.

"...it's okay, Arthur...I mean...what you told me about your mom, she seems nice. And your brother...he really...okay, he sounds like an ass. Like...a major ass."

It made him start thinking about his own family. Matthew wouldn't be a dick like that if he...well, he'd have to say something some day, right? His dad might be a bit out of sorts, but his mom would totally be okay, right?

...right?

"Listen, you don't have to worry. You're over here, and you don't have to deal with that right now. What happened happened, and...there's no changing it, so it's best not to dwell on it."

Dwell. He didn't use the word 'dwell.' What the hell? Arthur looked up, his face flushed in a way that got Alfred's cheeks the very same color.

"...if...if we're going to do this...we need to be careful. You've got more at stake than I do."

"What? Dude, no, you got a family, too, I'm not-"

"I meant school, Alfred. Everyone already thinks I'm a freak. Adding another little trait won't make a difference. You're the quarterback. Don't tell me the possible outcomes of all this haven't crossed your mind?"

Alfred paused before nodding. He had. He thought about it plenty. All the time. What the team would say or do. His friends. His everything.

"...we'll face that bridge if it gets there, okay? Come on. You need cheering up."

. . . .

Arthur felt a small kiss to his cheek before seeing Alfred hop down off the couch towards the television on all fours. He opened a cabinet and pulled out a large box and a few...cartridges? What the hell?

"Wanna play video games?"

"...what do you have?"

"I figured the N64'd be good today. It brings out the nostalgia goodness, ya know? I have...Mario Party, Super Mario, Paper Mario, Zelda, Mario Kart, Madden '99...gotta have at least one football game ya know? Any of those sound good?"

The cartridges were spread on the floor in an arc as Alfred hooked up the AV cords. It had been forever since Arthur had played a video game...when had it been? What had it been? His eyes scanned over each title, noting that some cartridges looked better than others. The Mario ones were in fairly good condition, whereas Zelda had a small stain that looked sticky in the corner. Madden looked like it were about to fall apart.

"...Mario Kart?"

"Awesome."

The jock snatched up the cartridge and popped it into the console, switching it on and handing a controller to Arthur. The punk took the handles gingerly, examining it carefully. These buttons here, and...oh, there was one in the back, too.

"I'm always Yoshi, just FYI."

"...got it."

What the fuck was a Yoshi? Well the game looked fun...racing. Alright.

"Okay. A's to speed up, B is the brake, you use the little toggle stick to move, and that's it."

"That's it?"

"Yeah. And you'll see boxes that'll give you power-ups to take out other players. Shells you shoot and stuff."

"...okay..."

Shotting shells? Like...bullets? What the hell? And here he thought Mario was wholesome. Arthur supposed not. Apparently this game was a bit more gritty than he realized.

The title screen came and Alfred was off. Two players, solo race, Yoshi selected.

"Pick a character!"

"Oh...alright."

Arthur surveyed his choices. Alright, there was Mario and his brother...and some gorilla...okay. A giant, villainous looking turtle, a fatass yellow Mario, and...the green dinosaur was unselectable, so that must've been Yoshi. That left a mushroom and a princess. Peach or something, right?

. . .

Doo-Ding!

"Dude, why'd you pick Peach?"

"Why did you pick a dinosaur?"

"...Touché. Alright, let's do this!"

A countdown began and off they went. Arthur lost the first few rounds, but after awhile began to get the hang of it. He even came in third once, beating Alfred in fourth. And those boxes were great! He could hit everyone with lightning! Or shells, which were actually turtle shell, praise God

After about an hour, the punk hit pause, getting a look from Alfred.

"What's wrong? You're not backing out, are ya?"

"No, it's just...ah...would...would your mother notice if her...um..."

"Makeup's on the second shelf in the cabinet."

"...Thank you."

Arthur jumped up and made his way towards the bathroom. He would remedy this feeling of nakedness...he'd almost forgotten during all the hubbub.

. . . .

"Like you need it."

Alfred mumbled to himself looking at the frozen screen. Arthur really needed to relax more often. He'd gotten him to laugh again. That's what he wanted; a nice friend who could be comfortable and laugh and do whatever with him...and...well, the kissing was a nice perk.

He'd thought about it quite a lot over the weekend. His first real kiss, one that he'd wanted. And one he'd actually enjoyed.

...he'd enjoyed it very much.

And...Arthur was actually really good-looking. There were plenty of instances where 'cute' went through Alfred's mind, but...really. Arthur was...

...Not hot. Hot made it sound like he was only interested in his body...which...he totally was interested in Arthur's body and shape, because holy shit, those jeans he wore were just-

. . .

Easy. Down, Alfred, down. Arthur was hot, but that wasn't all he was. He was...fascinating.

Hot, fascinating, and cool. And obviously there was a lot more going on then he'd previously thought. The jock smiled to himself and looked to the bathroom.

...well...whatever was going on with Arthur, Alfred would be more than willing to stay around and find out. Maybe help. Maybe date some more… definitely date some more.

The smile dropped off his face.

The first problem, of course, was figuring out where that bruise had come from...


	14. Yoga Pants and Salutations

Arthur prodded his face, taking a further look at his godforsaken freckles.

Damn it, he hated these things. There weren't many, but certainly enough to be noticeable. Just small patches, right on the tops of his cheekbones. Ugh. Go the fuck away.

He went through Alfred's mother's cabinet cautiously; the last thing he needed was to knock over and spill pills or something. What a terrific first impression. Speaking of, he probably ought to get this done quickly. Lord only knew when one of the other Jones' would arrive home.

The Brit found some foundation (powder, though, not cream. Damn it.) and hurriedly applied it. The result was clearly a rush job, but the problematic areas were successfully coated. He looked intimidating again. Eyeliner? Eh. He wasn't going anywhere today, so no.

. . .

...Unless this was date. So...yes. Yes, eyeliner. He found a small pencil and traced along his eyelid, a bit thicker than usual.

. . .

He ought to fix up the rush job, too. No point going out there looking like a slob. He dusted carefully, focusing on the freckles less and more of...well, everything else overall.

"Arthur!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming."

The punk replaced the products in about the right places they were before, speaking all the while as he made his way down the hall toward the living room.

"You better not have cheated and unpaused that thing, or I swear-"

He was cut short by Alfred's expression; the jock looked quite apprehensive, like he'd seen a ghost, just staring at Arthur.

...he didn't look that bad, did he?

It only took the punk a small swivel of his head to notice that there were now three people in the room. A young woman stood near the door, looking as if she'd just kicked off her shoes. Her blonde hair was in a tight, slightly frizzled bun, and her clothes, a loose 'Sugarland' t-shirt and sweatpants, made her figure appear bulky. A duffel bag shifted on her shoulder.

Her blue eyes were locked on Arthur in mild surprise.

"...Is this him, Al?"

"Y-yeah. Mom, this is Arthur."

. . .

Oh God. Fuck. Parental introduction? Already? But...Christ, they'd only been on one date! Arthur wasn't ready for this yet! And she looked so nice, damn it, fuck, shit!

"P-pleasure to meet you, ma'am."

The punk took a step forward, extending an only slightly trembling hand. The woman, Alfred's mother, smiled softly and shook it in greeting.

"It's nice to meet you, too, Arthur. I'm Jacqueline, but Jackie's fine. Oh, I think you and I use the same liner! In fact, I'm almost positive! Isn't it just great? Slides on nice and smooth and it hardly ever strays away even if you flinch, oh, it's just the best. Alfred mentioned you and how you had a different way of dressing, and it's so unique. How was the movie? It scared Al and me, the first one did, and..God, I need to say this; not many could pull off a solid unnatural color, but with your cut, it works, absolutely. You know, I wanted to get a red dye when I was in high school, but it came out this horrendous pink like you wouldn't believe. Ugh. Are you staying for dinner, dear? We'd be glad to have you."

The handshake finally stopped, and Arthur finally regained consciousness from the mental breakdown he'd ensued during Jackie's rambling.

"Yeah, Mom, he's staying."

The jock's mother clapped her hands once and sped off into the bathroom, taking her hair down as she spoke a mile-a-minute

"Oh, fantastic, we haven't had guests in so long. Al, how come you never invite Lizzy over anymore? She seemed so nice. Oh, Arthur, don't take that the wrong way, I'm sure you're a wonderful person, I was just curious. Lizzy's been Al's little friend since elementary school. Carter and I always thought they'd get married, but...oh, Carter's my husband, you'll meet him later."

She poked her head out, looking right at the baffled punk again.

"Sweeite, go ahead and sit, make yourself comfortable. Alfred, did you make him a drink? Go make him a drink right this second. Do you know when your brother's going to be home?"

Arthur blocked out everything after he sat down, reeling. Alfred and Jackie were having a conversation about their home life, but right now...

. . .

Jesus fucking Christ.

A glass of water was place in front of him, with Alfred taking his place on the sofa.

"I told you she was chatty."

Arthur could only nod. That...that had been horrifying...

"Al, did you finish your homework?"

"Yeah Mom!"

The jock turned to Arthur and mouthed 'No I didn't,' before unpausing their race. The punk hurriedly grabbed his controller and got back to work, muttering softly.

"You could've told me a car had pulled up."

"Sorry, I just thought it'd be better if you saw her first before hearing 'Arthur, you're about to meet my mother.'"

Arthur scoffed, choosing now to deploy a banana peel that caused Alfred/Yoshi to spiral out of control.

“That's for not warning me."

All of a sudden, a blue, spiky shell knocked out the pink princess, along with half of the racers in general. Arthur's jaw dropped as he looked to Alfred in disgust. The bastard was smiling smugly.

"That's for making me slip on a damn banana peel."

"Language, Alfred!"

"Sorry, Mom!"

Alfred's mother emerged from the bathroom, now wearing a light blue short-sleeve shirt with a pair of white shorts. She was fiddling with an earring, smiling at Arthur from a titled angle.

"You're not a allergic to anything, are you?"

"...No, ma'am."

"Oh perfect then, because I chose today to cheat on my workout and bought a cheesecake. I'm terrible, I know, but now I can blame it on you. 'No, honey, it's because we have a guest.' Don't tell on me, okay?"

The woman winked, heading off to the kitchen and leaving Arthur, yet again, shell-shocked.

"...is...is she-"

"Always."

. . . .

Alfred couldn't help but think that that had gone well. Arthur had met two-thirds of his family; all that was left was the final boss.

...Of course, the guy looked pretty shaken. They...oh...

...Oh wow. It was only now that the jock realized just why the punk beside him looked so tense and frightened. Yesterday had been his first date ever, hadn't it? Not only that, but...oh shit. One date and he was already meeting his parents? Shit! What kind of pacing was that?

"Arthur...hey, uh, if you don't wanna stay, that's-"

"I do."

Alfred paid no attention to their race, watching Arthur mindlessly button-mash.

"I mean...why not, right? Get it all out of the way...your mum seems to like me. That's good."

His voice lowered considerably.

"How are they?"

"About what?"

Alfred felt stupid immediately as Arthur looked to him with a raised brow. Oh. Duh.

"We don't really talk about it, I mean, it's on the news a lot these days, but...I dunno."

“Alright."

They sat in silence, the only sound coming from the television in comical effects and clinking in the kitchen as dinner was being prepared. Alfred could feel the tension.

"...You wanna go upstairs?"

His answer was Arthur immediately setting down the controller and standing.

"Please."

The jock grinned, amused as he followed suit and took the lead. Arthur was clearly uncomfortable, the poor guy. Had he never gone to friends houses, before? What about that goth kid? Or the Asian? Kiku or something?

Alfred opened his bedroom doom, gesturing Arthur inside.

...Why had he wanted to come up here again?

"You okay?"

"Better now."

Arthur stretched, exhaling deeply before sitting on the edge of the bed. Alfred couldn't help but sigh as well. Everyone was safe. He moved to sit next to Arthur, patting the punk's hand.

"Good."

The punk's hand automatically turned to clasp Alfred's. The jock felt his face heat considerably, noticing the tips of Arthur's ears has gone bright red.

"Ah...you understand what I meant when I said we'd need to be careful...right?"

Alfred nodded quietly, though he wasn't exactly sure if what it meant. He chose to listen for once rather than interrupt.

"...I mean...I'm not...I like you, Alfred. I do. But...we need to lay low...my brother already knows. What happens if someone at school knows? Everything will crash down for you...I mean, maybe, I don't...God, I don't know, I've never done this before..."

"...I'd just hate to see someone like you lose what you have because of-"

"Stop."

Alfred turned Arthur's head to him, taking the punk by surprise.

"You and I are completely equal. I'm not better than you, you're not better than me. We both have a ton to lose here, and if it weren't worth it I wouldn't be doing it...okay? I like you, too, but you gotta stop putting me on a pedestal. No one's better than anyone."

He placed a hand on Arthur's cheek, rubbing his thumb gently across the front. A few freckles made themselves visible, and he grinned. The punk, however, still looked scared.

"...uh...can...c-can I...?"

Alfred leaned forward just slightly, watching Arthur move back in a flinch. Damn it, he'd frightened him again.

"Sorry, I-"

The jock was silenced by the punk's lips, a kiss that Alfred could see had taken all of Arthur's courage and strength. Even under the makeup, the punk was flushed, and his eyes were shut tight. What, was he expecting Alfred to pull away?

. . . .

Oh thank God, he wasn't pulling away. Thank God, shit. He could feel the warmth from the both of them, and his heart was racing. He’d kissed Alfred this time.

He could feel Alfred's hand behind his back, pulling them closer together. The punk broke for a second to breathe, adjusting how he sat to make getting close a bit easier. He felt confident for once; who knew a simple kiss could be so...uplifting? He felt strong and confident and nothing could stop him and that was Alfred's tongue.

. . .

Oh God, fuck, shit, help, someone help! What the hell was he was he doing? His eyes popped open, seeing that Alfred looked very unsettled, nervous...

...Right. He'd never really done this, either...

He opened his mouth just the smallest bit, allowing the jock to proceed. Alright. They could do this. It was just...wet, and weird. Oh Jesus, it felt weird...

Yet...somehow it excited him. His whole body felt hot, and Alfred's hands felt kept moving around, and...God, it was fantastic.

"Alfred, dinner! And Dad's home!"

The two boys broke apart, a small string of saliva connecting them for a moment before dissolving. Both were red in the face, staring at each other in a way that didn't signify happiness nor regret. They were both rather happy, of course.

"Ah...w-we should-"

"Yeah. You...Dad and...yeah, let's go..."

Alfred stood, straightening out his clothes. He offered Arthur a hand, which was taken quite quickly. The punk took a deep breath and smiled.

"Let's."

He kissed Alfred very briefly before passing him on his way out the door.

...This was going just fine.

He could handle Alfred's dad, no sweat!

Of course, the sight of the hulking man at the bottom of the stairs kicking off his shoes and complaining about traffic in a gruff voice spoke otherwise. Quite differently, in fact. Especially when he turned his eyes up the stairs and locked on Arthur.

"The hell is this?"

"Carter, this is Arthur! Al mentioned him, remember? Language, sweetie."

"...hmph."

. . .

Fuck.


	15. Fibs and A Good Meal

Arthur stared down at his plate. The casserole Alfred's mother had prepared looked quite appetizing, but the punk's stomach just wasn't settling right. The chatter around him was light and easy...he was so used to silent dinners, nothing but small clatters of silverware.

"Alfred, did Mattie have plans?"

"I'm right here, Mom..."

"Oh sweetie, I'm so sorry! You know your father and I are always telling you to speak up when you get home. Right dear?"

"Mm."

Alfred's father looked up from the meal to lock directly on Arthur. The punk stiffened. Alfred intervened quickly.

"Dad, this is my friend. Arthur. He's...he's from England."

There was a quiet sigh of realization from the man across from them, going back to his meal.

"That explains it then."

He twirled his fork at Arthur.

"Euros got like a...you people are all obsessed with fashion or something, right?"

"...a-ah, well...I wouldn't say obsessed..."

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was Arthur supposed to feel alienated right now? He wanted to make a good impression with Alfred's family, but...'you people?'

"Carter, don't interrogate the poor thing. Arthur, I already told you, but I love your sense of style."

"...Thank you, ma'am."

"And so polite! Isn't he, Carter?"

"Mm..."

"God, Mom, this is great! Best casserole ever, really!"

Alfred jumped in, sensing the mood for one of the first times in his life. Arthur sighed silently in relief, choosing now to pick at his food. Not bad.

"Thank you, Al, but it's the same recipe I always use..."

"And that's what great about it! Not a lotta people can maintain consistency, ya know?"

"Alright, Al, what're you hiding?"

His father spoke, setting down silverware as he crossed his arms. Arthur's own fork clattered to his plate, slipping out of his grip in shock.

"I...I-I'm not-"

"You've lived under this roof for seventeen years, Alfred. You ought to know I don't care for secrets. Spit it out, boy."

. . .

"I'll take full responsibility, Mr. and Mrs. Jones."

Arthur spoke up, catching everyone by surprise. Alfred's father's eyes narrowed while his mother's widened. Matthew looked shocked, and Alfred blanched.

"Arthur-"

"No, no, it's...Alfred, they need to know."

"What are you-"

"I kept Alfred from doing his homework and he failed. He told me over and over that he needed to get it done, but I pressured him into going to see that movie...I'm very sorry. It won't happen again, I promise."

. . .

"Alfred, is that true?"

“...Y-yeah, Dad."

. . .

There was a tense silence as the teenagers waited for some, any response.

"...Alright. But no more slacking. They don't let people in college on football scholarships alone these days. Keep those grades up. I don't wanna hear about this again, understood?"

"Yes, sir."

Alfred went back to dinner, clutching Arthur's hand under the table. The Brit jumped, squeezing his friend's hand before going back to his own meal.

"Well, thank you for fessing up, Arthur. That was very mature of you. But my husband's right. You're welcome to visit and hang out with Alfred as much as you like, but please don't convince him to pick fun over his studies. Alright?"

"Yes, ma'am. It won't ever happen again."

"You're damn right it won't."

"Carter, language."

. . . .

Matthew sat in silence, eating and listening to the conversation around him. His mother had asked Arthur about life back in England, and the guy had explained that he'd only lived in the country until he was four, then had packed up and shipped out West to here. Their father had even loosened up a bit, dropping his hard exterior to ask a few legitimate questions.

Matthew's concerns here weren't about their surprising dinner guest, though. It was about the massive lie him and Alfred had just spun moments ago.

Alfred failing an assignment was very easy to believe. His family had fallen right for it without any doubt. Hell, Matthew believed it.

At least, until he remembered that Alfred had copied off him for that assignment. And the younger sibling had made an eighty-seven. By Alfred's standard or copying, he would've either altered a few answers until he received a score of just above or just under Matthew's score. No need to get teachers suspicious, of course.

The point being was that Alfred and his new friend had just lied.

Their mother dished out some cheesecake, and the conversations continued.

"What do your folks do, Arthur?"

"My mum works in real estate...and...my father's not around."

"Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry. When did he pass?"

"...I meant I don't know where he is...I never met him..."

There was another small hum from their father and the table grew quiet.

"Well, there's nothing wrong with that, sweetheart. My parents divorced when I was young, too, about your age."

"Mom..."

"Yes, yes, I'm sorry. Does anyone want milk?"

"Actually, um, Alfred...?"

"Oh. Yeah, Mom, I need to get Arthur home, okay?"

"Alright, drive carefully. Arthur, dear, it was wonderful meeting you. Come back anytime you like, alright?"

"Thank you for having me, ma'am. Dinner was excellent."

The two boys stood and made their way to the door, followed by every eye in the room until the door clicked shut behind them and the sound of engine disappeared into the night.

"That kid's a fairy if I've ever seen one."

"Darling, not at the table."

"I'm just sayin', I don't want it rubbin' off on Alfred. Last thing we need is Al prancin' around like a-"

"Carter, we can't control who he's friends with. Arthur seems like a nice young man, and nice young men are preferred over...well, you know Matt's friend."

"What, that albino delinquent?"

The parents carried on, discussing their children and odd forms of companionship. The dishes were cleared and they retreated to the living room, still speaking quietly about their sons.

Unfortunately, Matthew was still in the room.

...So Arthur Kirkland was preferable over his 'albino delinquent' best friend...Matthew's only friend, really.

The quieter of the Jones' children took what was left of his cheesecake and brought it to his room. Just like usual.

...He hadn't spoken to his brother in awhile, not like they'd used to. Real heart-to-hearts, back in elementary school. Then their parents had decided to do away with the guest bedroom and give the twins their own living space. Their own rooms. After that, everything went to shit.

They needed to talk.

. . . .

"Dude, you saved my ass back there. I'm not quick-witted, so..."

"No problem at all. And if you don't mind me saying, I think I prefer your mother..."

"Nah, that's cool. Dad's kinda..."

Alfred trailed off, glancing over to Arthur.

"Um...I'm sorry if they kinda pried or something...I didn't think they'd start drilling you about your dad."

"They didn't. And either way, I'm used to it. It's just something I don't talk about much is all. Frankly the 'you people' freaked me out a bit more than that. I figured it either meant a European or...well..."

"Yeah. Dad's not the most sociable guy."

Alfred chuckled.

"You kinda...damn, you coulda warned me about what you were gonna say...I thought you were about to spill everything."

"Sorry, I just...something tells me you're not a decent liar."

"You're right on the money with that one..."

"And that's not a bad thing. For me, anyway."

Arthur smiled shyly to his driver.

"I liked meeting your family...your brother was rather quiet, though."

"Eh, Mattie's always quiet."

They pulled into Arthur's driveway, sharing a quick, closed-mouth (thank Jesus) kiss that the Brit prompted. Alfred placed a hand just behind the punk's neck, holding him steady.

"You'll be at school tomorrow, right?"

"I'm always at school...just not in school."

Arthur slipped out of the car, waving curtly. Tonight had gone fairly well.

"I'll be at school, and...uh...you know, actually maybe we should..."

The Brit stopped, trying to think of how this would work.

"Ah...you know what, I'll surprise you tomorrow, alright? Don't cut class with me. Alright?"

"...'kay..."

Alfred gave Arthur a confused look; why was the punk smiling like that?

"I'll see you tomorrow, Alfred."

"Yep."

Arthur slammed the door, jogging through the cold away from the jock's truck toward the house. After slipping in quietly, he managed to creep up the stairs to his room unnoticed. The punk whipped out his phone, texting rapidly.

'I'm in, you can go now.'

'U gonna b ok?'

. . .

'You gonna be okay?'

'Why wouldn't I be?'

'Okay. Night, Arthur.'

'Good night, Alfred.'

. . .

'Sleep well.'

'You, too.'

. . .

'Arthur?'

'Yes?'

. . .

'...Thanks.'

'For what?'

Arthur never got answer. He sighed, tossing his phone aside and crawling into bed. He'd need sleep...considering tomorrow was going to be his first true day of school.


	16. ChitChat and Dramatic Meetings

Alfred merrily hummed the Metallica song blasting through his truck's speakers, taking his sweet time to park in the driveway.

This whole day had gone off without a hitch! Arthur had gotten to meet the jock's family, said family liked Arthur (at least his mom did, anyway), and he got to kick the punk's ass in Mario Kart! Perfect day!

...Of course...there was apparently a witness to their budding relationship. But how credible was one person? One, awful, trouble-making person? At least Alfred assumed Colin was a bad dude. He had to be, from what Arthur described. Smoker, rude...that was really all the Brit had to say about him. He'd cut himself off and asked to talk about something else.

"Ta-ke my ha-nd...we're off to the Never Never Land..."

The humming turned to quiet singing as he locked the vehicle. Singing turned to whistling and back into humming as he entered his house and started up the stairs.

"I'm home! Goin' to bed."

"Night, Al. Love you!"

"Love you, too, Mom. Night Dad, love ya."

"Mmh."

Alfred rolled his eyes and smiled. His dad was never really the vocal type, but he knew he loved him all the same. And Matt and Mom, of course.

His parents were such opposites. His mother could talk for hours on end, about anything; news, gossip, the mail, anything. Whereas his father...a person would be lucky to get a solid sentence out of him. And a compliment at that.

Damn, Alfred didn't realize just how tired he was. After a short yawn and a few more steps, he reached his bedroom door and swung it open, his eyes falling on his messy, disorganized room...and his brother?

"Matt. Hey. What's up...?"

. . . .

Matthew raised his head at the sound of the door opening, Alfred falling into his line of sight. Good. Finally, he was home. He'd been waiting since him and Arthur had left.

"Nothin'. Just wanted to ask you something."

"Sure, shoot."

The younger twin watched quietly as his brother shrugged off the letterman he was always so proud to wear. God, how did he go about talking about this? What was he even trying to talk about? The lie? Yes of course, but...damn it, what the hell was going on with everyone?

"I made a ninety-six on Yao's homework."

"Sweet, but...that's not a question?"

Matthew gulped. He'd never really confronted anyone before. Bullies abound had loved him as a target; Alfred took up the role of White Knight for the duration of freshman year, something Matthew was midly ashamed of to this day.

"...Just...earlier. Um...Kirkland said you'd...I mean..."

He noticed just the slightest change in Alfred's expression at the mention of Arthur's last name. Odd...

"I guess what I'm asking is...how do you fail something that I passed? I watched you copy me and make your usual alterations, but he said you...I mean, you shoulda made an eighty-eight or ninety after all that."

. . .

The silence was a killer. Oh God, Matthew shouldn't have done this. So why the hell was he still talking?

"And I know you bring home people from the team sometimes, but...Arthur Kirkland? I think that guy's friend tried making a voodoo doll of me once. What the hell is going on, Al?"

All of a sudden Alfred laughed a very hard, booming laugh. Matthew flinched, startled.

"Dude, you're crazy! I lost the paper, I just didn't wanna tell 'em cause I knew Dad would give the 'Responsibility is Key' speech, and I didn't want Arthur to see that. And...he's...he's just a cool guy, okay?"

"How the hell did you even start talking to him?"

"He spray-painted the team's jerseys."

. . .

"...Al. What the fuck."

"He didn't get mine! And the guys woulda kicked his ass if I hadn't saved him and his friends! We started talking, no big deal."

Matthew knew immediately that it was indeed a big deal. Alfred never said 'no big deal' unless it was a catastrophically huge, 'holy-fuck-take-cover' kind of deal. Mostly because he was a terrible liar.

...Being friends with Arthur Kirkland was huge fucking deal. But why?

"What, does he have like, a hot sister or something?"

"Matt, thats awful, you really think I'd do that?"

"No, but I've been seeing less girls around here, so I'm starting to think you're just getting desperate."

Whoah, what the hell? Did Alfred look pale? It looked that way to Matthew. Maybe it was jus the lighting in here.

“...No...no sister. Look, can I go to bed?"

"...Yeah. Sorry."

The boy got up and let his brother take the bed. Was Al not even gonna change out of his day clothes?

“Night, Matt."

"Night Al."

There was a nagging thought in the back of the younger sibling's mind, but...there was just no way. Sure, the pattern was the same...just like Lizzy. Come home, play Mario Kart, dinner, but...fuck, there was just no way. 

...Right? 

Matthew retreated to his room, choosing to just...sleep. He reached under his bed until he felt a fuzzy object. Mr. Polar Bear had been a gift to him as a baby. Their first birthday.

The worn-out stuffed toy was, frankly, being used now for comfort now more than ever.

. . . .

The alarm clock by Arthur's bedside screamed some song from some radio station he hadn't listened to since he was twelve. It jolted him awake in the rudest of ways before his fist came barreling down on the snooze button. God, what a horrible machine. What fucker had even invented the idea if waking up in the morning, anyway? What was so terrible about waking up at, like, eleven and getting to work?

Arthur threw his legs off the side of the bed and dragged himself up. Shit. He'd slept in his clothes last night and hadn't washed off his face. How easily did Alfred's mother's makeup clean up? With several popped joints and a small grunt, the punk set off to the bathroom to find out.

...And the answer was quite easily. Damn...he might have to switch products.

He snuck back into his room to change, a fresh, new coat of his own makeup applied now. It felt thick, not as airy...shit. He'd gotten used to the new gunk, too.

Arthur tore down another one of his band shirts from the rack; his closet was rather organized, when one looked at it. Band and concert t-shirts were in the middle, featuring his favorite groups. Pink Floyd, Sex Pistols, and AC/DC to name a few. To the left were jeans. Ripped jeans, skinny jeans, blue jeans...he was feeling ripped jeans today. It would go better with the Metallica shirt he'd selected.

To the right were...'normal' clothes. T-shirts that had nothing but brand logos on them. Shirts with no logos on them. All in bright colors or witty remarks on the front of them.

They'd all been gifts, mostly. His mother, his grandparents before they'd passed away sophomore year. Things he didn't wear.

...He really ought to clean this thing out...

. . .

...Eh. It could wait another day.

Arthur shut his closet and hurried downstairs, throwing his tattered, unused backpack over his shoulder. He'd forgotten how heavy this thing was.

His mother was still on the sofa, sleeping. Her son's face softened as he approached, giving her a soft kiss on the forehead. She stirred but didn't wake.

"I'm going to try harder today, Mum."

The punk wasn't sure of what exactly he meant when he said 'try,' but he did know he needed to get going.

Try at school?

Try to be a better person?

Try to make her happy?

...All of the above.

. . . .

"Forty-seven."

"Right again, Mr. Kirkland."

Arthur lowered his hand, a soft smile coming to his face. He ignored the dirty look Mr. Yao was giving him and just simply reveled in the moment. Second period Algebra. He'd made it through first period Spanish decently enough, much to the surprise of Mr. Carriedio. Next was lunch, mercifully, and then...

...Shit, what did he have next?

The only reason he was doing so well in here was because the Asian kid next to him must have been fucking psychotic...or a genius. The guy next him kept mumbling off how to work out the problems and the answers but never actually offering to raise his hand. So...Arthur picked that up.

He'd study in the future. Hell, the punk was actually taking notes this very moment.

The bell rang. Arthur sighed, feeling rather...content. He was halfway through the day, and so far he was doing great. He had homework, yes, but...still. The room emptied out as he gathered his belongings.

"May I speak with you, Mr. Kirkland?"

The teacher's voice caught his attention...shit, had he caught him cheating off the kid? The punk stood, moving toward the front if the room.

"Yes, sir?"

"I just wanted to congratulate you on your attitude change. I'm very pleased. You still have a long way to go, though. I'll be keeping an eye especially on you. I'm suspicious. Keep up the good work."

"...Yes, sir…Thank you...?"

"Have a good day."

The Brit took that as his cue to leave and did so quickly. Well that hadn't been strange at all...had that that been a compliment or-?

The second he was out the door he received a hard slap on the back.

"What the hell do you-?"

"Nice work in there."

. . .

...Oh. It was Alfred.

...wait...

Alfred had been in there? Jesus, how could he have forgotten that? How had he not seen him?

"Ah...th-thanks, I-"

"I mean, anyone can pass that class sitting next to Jacob."

Jacob? Oh. That must've been the kid Arthur had been next to. Damn, Alfred knew he'd 'cheated.' Shit.

"We'll...he wasn't doing anything, I just picked up where he left off. Hey, wait, why didn't you tell me we were in the same class? I would've sat next to you."

Alfred's face perked up. "Really? I mean...you don't think-"

"Oh yes, right. If two guys sit next to each other they must obviously be dating. How could I possibly forget?" Arthur watched, confused as the quarterback's face broke into a grin.

"We're dating?"

"...Ah...well...we've been on three technical dates, and...we've had fun on each of them, and...I'd...I-I'd like to go on more, so...yes. We're dating-"

His hand grasped Alfred's gently as they walked, only for the jock to jerk away very suddenly as a few boys Arthur recognized from the drama club turned the corner towards them. The leader began speaking, and God, there was that voice. That garbled English in that thick French accent.

"Ah, Monsieur Kirkland and Jones. What a pleasant surprise to run into you here."

"We're in school, dumbass."

Arthur spat the words toward the group leader, someone whom he'd directed much of his anger toward since middle school; Francis Bonnefoy. This douchebag...had he seen them? He felt like he should be upset at Alfred for being so quick to stop, but...maybe he had good reasoning with this.

"Don't you have some mime act to do? The world would appreciate you shutting your fucking trap."

The French exchange student tsked, causing the two female members by his side to giggle. Ugh. Stab him.

"Miming is the lowest form of entertainment, dear boy, just under ventriloquism. In the Drama Club, the world is our stage where-"

"You're talking as if I actually give a shit."

Franics gave him a small shake of the head, smiling sadly.

"I suppose there are some people who will never understand the arts. Unlike you, Alfred."

The jock looked surprised, but nodded.

"Uh...yeah, sure, how?"

Arthur raised a brow as the repulsive student moved closer to Alfred, speaking in that Godforsaken voice. Shut the fuck up, you tool.

"Even American football requires some grace...stamina...dexterity..."

Once it escalated to Francis placing a hand on Alfred's shoulder, Arthur had had enough.

"Why don't you choke on a roll, you sod?"

The Frenchman brought his hand off Alfred, still smiling that smile.

"Arthur, mon cheri, why are you so hurtful? And...wearing such tacky-"

"Go. The fuck. Away."

. . .

Francis shrugged, gesturing for the girls follow him.

"Au revior, you two. And...Arthur? The word you were looking for was baguette. You hope I choke on a baguette."

And with that, they left, the girls laughing at some joke that Alfred and Arthur hadn't heard.

"Damn, that was clo-"

"I fucking hate that prick."

"...'Kay, we could start there."

. . .

The two continued on their way to the cafeteria, Arthur ranting off about their encounter. Alfred patiently listened, growing just a bit more worried by the second.

"He's also a fucking tool. Have you noticed that? And his hair pisses me the fuck off, too. Just like his face. And I'd rather have knives stabbed into my ears repeatedly than have to hear that voice of his. And then he fucking-"

"Why'd you choose to come to class today?"

Alfred decided to take a shot in the dark on changing the subject; Arthur looked ready to start foaming at the mouth with hatred. Best to put an end to that. The punk stopped short and turned to the jock.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Will you be in class tomorrow? How far behind are you? I could...I mean, Matt could help you study. He's never really busy, so I'm sure he won't mind."

Alfred watched Arthur break their gaze, looking towards the floor towards a shadow in the corner.

"I...I mean, I was planning to..."

The jock grinned boldly, wrapping Arthur up in a hug. He felt the punk kicking his ankles, having lifted him of the ground and all.

"Awesome"

"Put me down, God damn it!"

"Sorry, sorry"

Alfred lowered the punk until he could stand, trying not to laugh at his face. It was a crumpled ball of angry emotions and flusteredness. Adorable. Like a pissed off kitten...he probably shouldn't say that, though.

"Dude, you're blushing like crazy."

"I-I am not! Just...don't ever do that again! Christ...wait, how can you tell?"

"Ears"

Arthur's hands immediately went to feel his ears, causing Alfred to laugh loudly.

"Shut up! Just..can we just get lunch or not?"

"Sure, why not?"

Alfred reached to take Arthur's hand, only to have Arthur pull away as they walked.

"I...I'd like to, but...you're right...that was too damn close."

. . .

"...Y-yeah! Sorry… I… duh, stupid. Okay. Let's go."

Alfred shook his head, a bit disappointed. He'd love to hold Arthur's hand, hold him, let everyone know just how happy they were. Not for attention, but to just...he didn't know, be himself. He hated lying and hiding. How long could they keep it up?

He looked over to Arthur. The punk had calmed down considerably, his hand gently taking Alfred's.

"...At least until we get to cafeteria...everyone should be in there, now, so..."

“...okay"

He squeezed Arthur's hand, smiling brightly as he decided that he could wait as long as it took. The jock's smile was so bright, that shadow Arthur had been looking at earlier disintegrated. At least...that's what Alfred told himself. It sounded more romantic that way.

Of course, it wasn't true. Rather, the shadow was now walking in the opposite direction, holding a cellphone and texting at lightning speed.


	17. Blackmail and High Heels

Alfred walked into the cafeteria alone. Not because he was alone, but because Arthur had had the idea of going in separately. Holding hands would have definitely given them away, but coming in at the same time could arouse suspicion. The jock sped towards the line, thanked the lunch ladies (as always), and headed towards his table, the loud noisy members of the team causing the most of the uproar that was a high school cafeteria.

...Him and Arthur were dating. Arthur had said so himself. He'd given reasons, too! Reasons why they were dating, and should be together!

…Oh God

. . .

Did that make Arthur his boyfriend?

No. No, not yet. They had to go on a few more dates before that. And Alfred had to ask him properly...for all he knew, Arthur might only want to date. And...of course, there was the possibility that with them coming out that he'd go off dating other guys.

. . .

Shit, he was depressing himself over something happy. Okay. He was dating someone, and that someone was Arthur Kirkland...Arthur Kirkland, and his adorable smile, and insane hair, and…and that tongue stud he'd actually had a chance to feel for himself last night-

"Yo, Jones, quit spacin'. Does this look infected?"

Alfred shook himself out of his daze to look over at one of his friend's knees, flinching immediately at the sight.

"Jesus, Trey, yes, go...go to the nurse, oh my God."

. . . .

Arthur sighed, waiting in the boy's restroom just outside the cafeteria. Alfred had gone in without issue, so now he was next. He peered out, seeing that Demetri and Kiku were already inside and at their table. Good. They would be none the wiser.

...Someday they could be the wiser. Surely they wouldn't have a problem with Arthur being...the way he was...gay. And it wasn't like Alfred was a bad guy! On the contrary, Alfred was a wonderful guy. Kind, and caring...the fact he was bloody gorgeous was a nice perk, too.

Yeah. Coming out to his friends wouldn't be that difficult. Dem would probably say 'Knew it' and Kiku...well hell, Kiku wouldn't say anything at all!

Alright. Enough time had passed. Now to go enjoy some lunch, talk to his-

Vwooohm

The bathroom went pitch black, the lights going out immediately. Arthur looked around rapidly...or, as much as he could anyway. What the fuck was going on?

"You could get yourself in serious trouble, Kirkland."

He jumped as a voice reverberated around the stalls. Shit. 

"Who said that? Turn the lights back on!"

Was that a girl? But this was the boy's room! And the accent was so thick that he could hardly tell, especially with the damn echo.

Suddenly, a flame flickered from a lighter, the mysterious figure's face only partially visible.

"I saw you."

Arthur blinked. What the fuck? Saw what?

"What the fuck are you talking about? I'm trying to get lun-"

"The quarterback and the senior class delinquent. Like something out of a movie. It's so sweet I could just vomit. My email might vomit, too. Such a nice, high-definition picture my phone takes."

Arthur's heart skipped three beats. Oh…oh God. He was fucked. Absolutely fucked.

He groped for the switch in the dark, flicking it and revealing his tormentor...none other than the adopted younger daughter of the Braginski family. Natalia's lighter whooshed out as she released the trigger, shoving it back in her pocket. Her snow-white dyed hair made her even paler complexion seem like she was translucent. The black dress looked ragged near the edges, and the number of wristbands were in the double-digits. All black. To also mention that her knee-high, lace-up boots and stockings were black would be pointless.

The girl was as close to goth without actually being a goth as she could get.

"What do you want?"

Arthur had learned that fighting just led to more fighting; just give in now and hope to God things worked out. And especially don't appear scared, even though he thought he might kill over from a heart attack right this very second. Natalia laughed harshly, her hair bouncing. She began speaking, her accent thick and entrancing.

"What do I want? See, that is the funny thing, because I don't actually want anything. It's just been so long since I actually blackmailed someone, I jumped at you. Perfect timing for me, wrong place and wrong time for you."

"...So you're...you're doing this just to be a bitch?"

"Basically"

Arthur chose now to be frightened out of his wits. Oh God...already? It hadn't even been a proper week! And now he was going to be outed just because of some bitch? What the fuck? This was something he wanted to do himself! With Alfred! If...of course, if that came ever came...

...wait...

Wait, what was that rumor? Arthur never really paid attention to gossip, but sometimes, something really piqued his interest. And right now, it might just save his ass.

"...Delete them."

Another sharp laugh from the European beauty. She swayed towards Arthur, sneering.

"And why should I do that?"

"I've heard you hold your family close."

There was an instant temperature change in the conversation. Natalia's satisfied smirk turned into a stone-cold glare, getting right into Arthur's face.

"What the fuck are you getting at Kirkland?"

"You know damn well, Natalia...I guess being adopted is a nice perk to it, isn't i-?"

He was cut off, mostly by being shoved to the wall. Got her.

"What the fuck are you getting at, Kirkland?"

The punk struggled, realizing this girl was a bit stronger than he anticipated. Okay, just...power through.

"I've...heard...that you're not fond of your sister."

"She's an attention-hogging bimbo slut."

. . .

"...Alright, well...ah...what if I...help you?"

Natalia was at rapt attention, gently easing Arthur off the wall. She took a few steps back, crossing her arms over her chest. Her expression clearly said that was interested, but not trying to show it.

"Help me what?"

Arthur regained control of his lungs, keeping his distance. All right...this chick was fucking psycho.

"If...if I can get her...let's say 'occupied'...and out of the house more often...and...away from Iva-"

"Yes?"

...Got her.

"Then you delete that photo. And every copy you may have made."

Arthur waited. He waited as Natalia bore holes in him with her steel blue eyes, locked in a glare.

...If Iryna wasn't around as often as she was, then she would be gone. And if she were gone, then that would be more time for herself and Ivan. And more time with her stepbrother meant...

Slowly, she extended her hand.

“Alright"

Arthur took it immediately, shaking solidly and trying to fight away the trembling feeling in his limbs. The girl let go and clacked her way toward the door, the punk in hot pursuit as they both headed toward the cafeteria.

"You have until the end of the week, Kirkland. After that, your snuggling up with number fifty goes viral."

"...U-understood."

For good measure, he opened the door for her. Honestly, even Colin had never made him this fucking scared.

"And Kirkland?"

She turned with a smile that scared Arthur even more, her voice sickly sweet. He stepped into the noisy cafeteria, unable to reply before being shoved to the wall again. The noise died down considerably.

"Don't you fuck me over. No one hears about this. No one"

"...Y-yes"

She let go and clicked her heels in the opposite direction. Every eye in the cafeteria was on her, then him. He found Alfred looking completely dumbfounded, along with Kiku.

"...The fuck are you looking at?"

Almost everyone went back to their meals, their topic of conversation predictably steering towards the events they'd just witnessed. Arthur's phone buzzed twice, mostly from Kiku and Alfred. He went to the line and got his food, appetite suddenly gone as he sat down with his friends. He'd deal with Kiku's message first.

'What on Earth happened?'

'Nothing, really. No worries, Kiku.'

He snapped his phone shut, signaling to his friend that he wasn't really in the mood for talking. Though under the table, he checked Alfred's message.

‘Holy shit wut wuz that? D:'

'Talk later.'

Arthur raised his phone above his head, hoping Alfred saw him turning the device off and shoving it away in his pocket.

"Alright. Dem, I'm sure you have some catty remark about me liking domination or being taken down by the more spirited sex, so just get it out of the way."

. . .

"...Dem? Dem..."

Arthur snapped his fingers in front of his friend's face. What the hell was he gawking at? The punk followed his gaze, seeing that it was locked on the girl who'd just made his life somewhat of a nightmare.

"Dem"

The goth woke up from the stupor, looking around.

“Oh...Hello, Arthur. I...the aura around her is quite dark."

"...yeah..."

. . . .

Alfred read the text from Arthur. Talk later? Why later? Braginski's sister almost destroyed him! When was later? What the hell had that been about?

Was Arthur being bullied? But how was he supposed to defend him against a girl? Alfred couldn't beat up a girl! What kind of man would he be if he even laid a finger on a woman like that, even if...well, even if she wasn't the nicest one?

Damn it.

The bell rang, signaling that lunch was over. Alfred jumped up from the table and bolted over to the dark trio. Kiku… it was Kiku, right? The Asian one looked frightened, and Demitri looked like he'd been running for a few hours. He looked dazed enough anyway. Arthur was the one he was concerned about, anyway.

"Kirkland. The guys wanted me to ask something about the jerseys."

Arthur's head jerked up, then behind the jock. Alfred turned around, seeing that her eyes were on them as she walked out.

...Oh...shit, something had happened.

"Come on, quit wasting my time, dumbass.

Arthur stood up stiffly and gestured for Alfred to follow him. The quarterback didn't need to be told twice and sped behind his...boyfriend. Fine. He'd say boyfriend, for now.

The two went to the boy's restroom, locking the main door behind them.

"Arthur, what the hell was that? She looked ready to slash your fucking throat!"

Why was Arthur pacing? Why did he look pale as a ghost? More than usual from the makeup, that is. He moved forward, taking his boyfriend gently by the shoulders.

"Breathe. Tell me what happened."

Alfred thought it might be okay to kiss Arthur's forehead, so he did. Considering the punk wasn't flinching away or yelling at him, he assumed he'd made the right choice. The jock waited until Arthur was ready to speak.

"...I...I can't say. We just had a misunderstanding. That's all."

"A misunderstanding? I thought was she was gonna-"

"Alfred please. We can't talk here...can I come over to your house after school?"

…Fuck. Today was Alfred's mother's cleaning day. No guests, everyone sentenced to their rooms as the rugs were steam-cleaned...hell.

"Not today, but I can come over to your's."

"No"

. . .

"I mean...s-sure...but we'll have to sneak in. My brother's a bit of an ass..."

"I can tell."

That was such a quick reaction before he'd given in...Alfred wondered just how much of ass Colin was. Nevertheless, he could deal with it; clearly, Arthur needed him right now.

"...We need to get to class."

The punk pried himself from Alfred's grip and made his way toward the door, startling the jock.

“But!-"

"She saw us, Alfred. We'll talk at my house."

And with a face white as ash, Alfred watched his boyfriend go, a twisted, gnarled knot forming deep in the pit of his stomach.


	18. Jeers and Fears

"The hell's wrong with him?"

"I haven't seen him in class since freshman year..."

"Why the hell haven't they kicked him out yet?"

"Dude, he must be high as fuck."

Arthur Kirkland was not 'high as fuck,' though his pale skin, spacey expression, and sudden nail-biting habit certainly gave that impression. The whispers came from all around, the other students having their go at him. The punk couldn't give two shits what they thought, he just wanted class to end. What was it, five minutes? How long were classes these days?

…He was completely fucked.

When the hell had that psycho bitch seen them, anyway? Where and when had she been able to witness him and Alfred embracing? Was there any sort of lying they could do? Alfred seemed to be a naturally affectionate person...but then they'd have to explain how their friendship came to be. One lie would pile on top of another.

He couldn't ask Alfred to do that...surprisingly enough, Arthur had gotten pretty used to the idea of him as a...

...Boyfriend? It seemed a bit early for that. Wouldn't he need to ask Alfred if he wanted to be that close?

Companion. Companion worked.

The punk had been thinking that Alfred was an excellent companion. In a way, he almost counterbalanced Arthur. The dark, brooding boy had a companion that could make him laugh and actually be happy for something. Hell. The big idiot had gotten him to stop smoking. Arthur was man enough to admit that.

Speaking of which, he should probably restock on patches soon...

For now, though, the most pressing thing was this goddamn blackmail. 'Make Natalia's sister occupied.' Occupied how? Why the hell did she hate...what's-her-name anyway? From what Arthur could see, she was the one girl on the cheer squad that actually had physical assets worth mentioning. What, was she a whore who kept stealing her sister's boyfriends? But then wait, didn't Natalia want to fuck her stepbrother or some shit? That was the rumor, anyway, and that ruled out 'stealing boyfriends'...Arthur wasn't quite sure where all this stood on any sort of 'going to hell' scale.

There was a light chime, the signal for the end of class, the end of the day. The unnatural redhead couldn't have gotten up more quickly, clambering with his bag before bolting out the door and down the hall.

Just get to the parking lot. Alfred was waiting. And they were going to...his own house.

Shit, why the hell was he rushing then?

The punk slowed once he reached the exit doors, taking his time in bracing himself for the cold. Damn it, he needed a new jacket, or hell, he'd even wear a sweater, so long as it was red or black. Did they make band sweaters?

He could see Alfred just ahead, leaning on the truck. Arthur's expression flickered from anxious to grim as he moved to his Subaru without so much as a glance to the jock.

"Follow me."

. . . .

Alfred opened his mouth, only to have Arthur slide into the car and start the engine. 'Follow him.' The jock immediately climbed into his Chevy and followed instructions, tailing his boyfriend's car.

She saw us.

She…she as in Natalia? Braginski's sister? The really fucking scary one? Alfred had never really talked to her, but he'd heard things from Iryna. She was the one cheerleader the jock could actually have a decent conversation with, such a nice girl. He never understood why she wasn't dating anyone. Her voice had the slightest accent to it, and her personality was lovely, and she was more kind than just about anyone he'd ever met. Just a bit too shy, he guessed.

Her rack would also be an excellent perk to a guy, but that certainly wasn't the most important trait about the cheerleader.

. . .

Ugh, his mind getting off-topic. Arthur. Him and Arthur had been seen by the Braginski sister who was apparently Satan's mistress.

Oh God...but why? Why was it important? She lived to be a bitch (or so he'd heard), so would anyone even believe her if she spread a rumor?

...Of course not...right?

They'd reached Arthur's house. The punk's car skidded into the driveway, it's owner hopping out before the final lurch of parking had taken place. Alfred took a bit more care in parking his truck (also making sure he wasn't blocking Arthur) and jumped out, beelining to the punk that was now storming to his house.

"Arthur, what-"

"Don't say a word, don't touch anything, don't ask any questions."

Arthur had rattled off instructions as his hand turned the knob of the door into his home, taking the quarterback by surprise. What the hell? Was his mom like, really strict or something? Fuck, would she be alright if they ever...well, he'd like to think there'd be a time when they'd come out. Not yet, though. Way too early for that.

Arthur's house was nice. A beat-up old sofa was on the wall, facing a television set. An easy-chair. If he walked straight forward he'd be in the dining room, the kitchen right next to that.

Alfred was being pulled by the wrist toward some stairs that he assumed led to his room.

"Nice house."

"Shut up."

"Artie? Are you home, my little poppy-crumpet?"

A high, falsetto voice came from the kitchen, a tall, redheaded man stepping out, sneering as he took a bite out of an apple. Alfred's eyes widened. That must've been Colin. He heard Arthur mutter a 'Fuck' under his breath, and suddenly the hold on his wrist was dropped.

"Oh, holy shit, is this 'im? Fuck, he's cute, Artie. I got a chick upstairs that looks kinda like 'im...ya know, if 'e had tits."

"Shut the fuck up, Colin."

…Oh…oh shit. This was probably why he shouldn't have said anything. Alfred was now caught in the crossfire of what was very obviously a strained sibling rivalry. If he could call it that. With the glare in Arthur's eyes, it looked all-out bloodshed was about to bust out.

"Alfred, go upstairs, I'll be right there."

"No no no, Artie, he can make his own decisions, he's a big boy. I'm guessin' you're goin' up to find out just how big, am I right? Try not to hurt my little bro, alright? I got a feeling he's a screamer."

Simultaneously, both Alfred and Arthur's face exploded red, Arthur's only visible by his ears. The jock simply turned on a heel and went upstairs, hearing a solid, 'Get fucked!' behind him, followed with a 'Oh I'm planning to. Good luck on your end.'

. . . .

Arthur's brain was on slow shutdown. Holy fucking Christ, that had been the most horrific moment of his life. This had been the most horrific day of his life. It was only Monday; was the rest of the week destined to be a shitfest?

He opened his door, seeing Alfred int he worst place he could possibly be in this moment; laying in his bed, redder than a cherry tomato.

"I fucking, fucking hate him."

The punk shouted as he automatically moved to his stereo, shuffling through CD's on his desk. One of these mixed...ah, there we go. He popped in the disc and fiddled with the knobs until 'One Step Closer by Linkin Park was screaming through the speakers. He sat down on the bed, huddling his knees and head close together.

Fuck him. Fuck his fucking life with a fucking-

"I-is he always like that?"

Arthur looked over, seeing that Alfred had picked himself up and was attempting to speak over the angry music. The punk automatically went for his dresser, pulling out a notepad and pen. He scrawled on the paper, passing it over.

Yes. And use this. The music is so we don't hear them fucking.

He watched Alfred glance at the paper, another small blush coming to his face as he took the own from the punk and began writing.

‘Y?’

Arthur took it back, giving Alfred a hard look as he shouted, "Are you fucking serious?", pointing to the chatspeak the jock had just written. He rolled his eyes as his companion gave him a sheepish grin that somehow he could still find cute through all this shit.

I don't know why. He's always been like this. 

A quick pass over, more scribbling.

'He's...kind of an ass… :( Where's your mom?'

. . .

And now he was using smileys on paper.

'Don't know. Sometimes she works late.' 

Arthur was stopped from relaying the message as he was being kissed. The punk huffed as he pushed Alfred back. What the hell? Not that it hadn't been nice, but really, that was the last thing he needed right now.

"The hell was that for?"

He shouted again, causing Alfred to wince and turn the volume down, at least to where it was no longer deafening.

"I thought you might like it..."

"Not now"

Arthur sighed, putting his head in his hands. Another hand went to pat his back somewhat awkwardly, something that made him sigh yet again. He sat up and calmly explained the predicament to the jock, sparing no detail, everything, even the fact he'd been shoved to the wall by a girl.

. . . .

"...Occupy Iryna? What the hell does that even mean? What, are we supposed to get her into a hobby or something?"

Alfred was baffled. This whole thing was fucking ridiculous. He wished he knew how compromising the photo looked, he might be able to joke around it, make it into a friendship thing.

He knew this went against everything his father had ever taught him, but if Natalia were a boy, he'd go up right to to him and sock him one, right in the jaw. But alas, her sex was what kept her safe from any sort of physical violence.

. . .

…That bitch.

"We have until Friday. Friday or we're pretty much outed."

The jock could hear the growing despair in Arthur's voice. God, he hoped he wasn't regretting this, dating Alfred. Not even a full week into their relationship (could they even call it that?) and one of the most important things that only they themselves should reveal was about to get plastered all over the school like gum under a desk.

And something they could do stop it was vague as fuck.

"...Hey, don't be...we'll...I'm sure we'll figure something out."

Alfred took a chance and placed an arm around the punk. To his relief, Arthur responded by leaning just slightly on his side after a moment's hesitation.

" Have I ever told you how I'm not touchy-feely? I don't know what the hell you're doing to me, and I don't like it."

The jock chuckled, holding him just a bit tighter. He sighed eventually.

...This really was an amazing clusterfuck they were in.

"I don't get why she could hate her sis so much. It's not like Iryna's a bad person or anything."

"It's cause she's leeching attention from her precious step-lover."

"What?"

Alfred looked down to his boyfriend, seeing something rare; a smile.

"You haven't heard? Apparently Natalia's after her step-brother's dick...I don't give a shit, they're not related, but still. Just a bit fucked up."

"No way"

"Ask anyone. That's probably why she wants Irnya 'occupied.' With her sister out of the house, their parents working until late, out of the way, that would make it the perfect opportunity for some quality brother-sister bonding ti-"

"Okay, stop, stop, shit, it's in my head, make it leave, damn it-"

And then another rarity; Arthur's laugh. Alfred smiled, despite the disturbing images sinking deeper into his cranium.

The two discussed plans for awhile. Perhaps they could tell her about a new television show or book series that she would become engrossed in, but that would keep her at home. Maybe they could get her movie coupons, so she would go see a movie every weekend...but then again, how many good movies actually came out anymore?

"We could hook her up with somebody...poor girl deserves somebody nice."

. . .

"Arthur?"

Alfred looked down, seeing that the punk had passed out in his arms. He couldn't help but to grin, the sight just too cute to be legal. Arthur looked so peaceful...poor guy. Today had been pretty harrowing; no wonder he'd decided to conk out.

The jock lay back, keeping Arthur steady. For now, his arm would suffice as a pillow. Alfred pulled the covers over the both of them. When had he last taken a nap? Whatever. One sounded pretty damn good right now.

"...We'll figure something out."


	19. First Impressions and Exciting Evenings

. . .

. . .

"Artie?"

. . .

"Artie! You and your friend can take a little break from studying, it's time for dinner!"

Arthur's eyes opened sluggishly, gathering and processing data far too slowly. When had he fallen asleep? Why was that song still playing? God, he hated Linkin Park, but when you're desperate for something angry and loud enough to drown out your brother fucking in the next room...well, you're pretty damn desperate. Though the volume was much lower. Strange. There was also a rather considerable weight on his chest. Something was beside him, and it made him flinch away until he recognized the shape that had it's arm over him.

...Alfred looked so peaceful. It made Arthur's cheeks boil under the thick layer of white; it was such a shift, compared to the almost constantly energetic expressions the jock was known for.

He looked Alfred up and down for a moment, the peace moving away as he remembered why he was here, in his home. Natalia. The deal. The potential outing that might take place in four days time.

...should he kiss him awake?

"Artie! Come down, the spaghetti will get cold!"

"Mum's right, Artie, you an' Alfred have been studying far too long. Take a break already!"

The calm expression on the quarterback's face twitched, looking tired until there was a rather loud yawn. Bleary blue eyes met green, and a dopey grin plastered itself across Alfred's face.

"...someone say food?"

Arthur nodded hesitantly before slipping out of Alfred's grip...so close. The punk clambered out of the bed, realizing that, dear God, they'd shared a bed. Slept next to each other. Something about that came off so...intimate to Arthur. They hadn't...well, they didn't...nothing had had happened of course, but nothing should have anyway. They'd hardly been going out for a week. Hell, they'd hardly been going out at all.

"Y-yeah...come on. Mum made pasta."

He watched as Alfred sat up and yawned again, stretched, swung himself out of the bed, only to pull Arthur back down on it, who gasped.

"Alfred, what the hell?"

"No good morning kiss?"

. . .

The pout on Alfred's face was a force of nature Arthur had never encountered before. Jesus Christ, kill him, he could hardly take it.

"...i-it's not the morning."

"So?"

. . .

"...idiot."

The punk rolled his eyes and leaned forward, meeting Alfred's lips gently. When he felt the jock's hand slip down to hold his waist, he hummed and gripped Alfred's shoulders, and when Alfred pressed into the kiss just a bit harder, so did Arthur, and when Arthur decided for himself that maybe using tongue hadn't been so strange after all, he parted his lips and got a response from Alfred immediately, and...alright yes, it was still really fucking weird, but oddly arousing, and-

"Careful there, Alfie, you'll get 'im hard and have to do 'im all over again."

The two boys couldn't have flown away from each other any more quickly. Alfred's cheeks were bright red, whereas Arthur's embarrassment showed only on his ears. Colin stood in the door, wearing something like amusement and disgust on his face. How long had he been standing there? When had he opened the door?

"Dinner's ready. Try an' stay off each other. We eat on the table, ya know."

With a smirk, the redhead left, leaving two incredibly humiliated teenage boys in his wake.

"I...I...I-I wasn't trying anything, just-"

"It's okay, Alfred."

Arthur spoke flatly, standing up and storming out the door, a mumbled 'Come on' leaving him. Alfred's footsteps quickly caught up to Arthur's, down the stairs into the kitchen.

. . . .

"Are you Alfred? I'm Arthur's mother, it's so nice to meet you! Artie doesn't bring friends home very often."

Alfred took her hand and shook it gently, smiling and pretending the little episode upstairs hadn't happened. As far as Alfred was concerned, it hadn't. Arthur wasn't glaring daggers at his dick of an older brother right now, and said older brother wasn't smirking like Satan's right-hand man.

Nope. None of that was happening because he had an impression to make.

"It's nice to meet you, too, ma'am. I'm glad to be here. Dinner smells fantastic."

"Oh my, thank you! It's all store-bought, though...I'll be right back everyone, I think the bread's almost done."

She scurried off hurriedly, the room's atmosphere darkening very suddenly. The jock watched Arthur out of the corner of his eye. The punk looked out for blood as he sat down, still sending a stony glare towards Colin. What the hell was that guy's problem? No one could just be that big of an ass for no reason, right? At least that's what's Alfred believed. No one was bad without reason. That's how it was in the movies; something terrible had to have happened to the bad guy for them to end up being the bad guy!

He sat beside Arthur, hoping he hadn't taken Mrs. Kirkland's place, and spoke as if nothing was wrong.

"So Colin. What'd you major in?"

"He's a dropout. A waste of space leech."

A hard laugh came from Colin, smirking at his younger brother, who'd spat an answer for him. Alfred gulped. Damn it, why the hell had he even asked? That'd only made it fifty time worse.

"I majored in 'Fuck off-ology.' Don't try to be all polite and perfect, kid, I'll ask the questions. How hard did you an' Artie go at it? The music was pretty damn loud; tryin' to drown yourselves out, eh? Or was it just 'im? Don' let 'im fool ya, he knows a thing or two about taking it like a little bi-"

"Shut the fuck up, Colin!"

"Bread's out!"

As Arthur's mother returned with a plateful of golden garlic bread, Alfred made the decision that he just wouldn't speak unless spoken to. That seemed safe enough, right? He thanked the woman as she heaped a good-sized serving of noodles onto his plate and gestured to the pot of sauce near the middle of the table for him to partake. The jock quickly went to it, drenching the pasta in red. She laughed, continuing to serve her sons and herself.

"I love a man with an appetite, oh, let me tell you. Do you play sports, Alfred?"

"Yes ma'am. Head of the football team...American football, I mean."

"Oh, well isn't that exciting? Isn't that exciting, Artie? You and Demitri and Kiku ought to go see a few games now! It'd give you something better to do on Fridays than sit up in your room playing that music...goodness, it sounds so hateful..."

Colin covered his mouth to suppress a chuckle. Arthur stared down and poked at his food while his mother's gaze whipped to the elder boy, eyes stern.

"I'm still expecting you to have a job by the end of the month, young man. I may still pay your mobile bill, but you best prepare yourself if I ever make you pay rent. I'm very serious Colin."

All of a sudden it was smiles again as she directed her attention back to Alfred, who felt like he was in the middle of terrible sitcom. What he wouldn't give to just take Arthur and go...

"Have you thought about what you're going to do after university? Artie wants to be an author. Of course, he said that a few years ago. Do you still want to be an author, dear?"

"Not really, Mum."

"Oh well that's fine then, there are hundreds more jobs and careers to choose from, you take your time, dear."

Alfred cleared his throat, answering the question calmly.

"I'd like to be a pilot, ma'am. Military, commercial...it'd just feel great to be in the air like that."

He had everyone's attention now, especially Arthur's. The green eyes were wide and his thick brows were raised, all while Colin looked surprised and their mother made some sort of sound of delight.

"That's amazing! I wish you luck, dear, oh, you're so polite, aren't you? Go on, eat up before it cools, have as much as you like. Artie, that goes for you, too. Lord knows you need some meat on your bones."

They all began to eat. The jock assumed that that was the end of the questioning. Now all he had to do was eat properly, make gentle conversation, then make some kind of excuse.

'My parents want me home by eight. Would it be alright if Arthur stayed over and helped me study?'

That might work. And he really only wanted Arthur over to keep him the hell away from Colin. That guy gave him the creeps, not to mention him and Arthur seemed to just despise each other's very existence. Getting Arthur out of here, if only for a night, might be the best thing for everyone.

. . . .

Alfred had survived his mother's interrogations. He'd survived Colin's shithead remarks from the peanut gallery. He'd made it, and he didn't want to turn tail and get the hell out of here. Arthur considered that quite an admirable trait about him. He ate his spaghetti in silence, watching everyone, making judgements.

Colin. Colin was the biggest asshole he knew, beating Natalia only in terms of physicality; he'd actually hit him. The Slavic-born bitch had only threatened violence. Colin had gotten him down on the ground more times than he could remember, and apparently he wasn't that worried about letting people know; had he been about to tell Alfred? Shit, he couldn't let Alfred know. What would he think then, that Arthur couldn't hold his own? He wouldn't do something stupid like get revenge would be?

Alfred. Alfred was brilliant. They may still have been new in terms of a relationship, but Arthur at least knew that Alfred was something special. He understood things about him that others didn't, like why he wore make-up for instance. Of course, that had been an accidental discovery, but nevertheless. He was kind, he seemed to actually have a brain, as compared to most everyone else he knew. Not mention that cute way he'd gotten scared of the movie. The jock had good taste in music, he was funny, and...and God damn it, he was good-looking. Alfred F. Jones was a fucking wet dream with legs. That blonde hair, those icy blue eyes, those hands that were just a bit rough to the touch...they could touch him all over, Arthur wouldn't mind, so long as he could touch and caress Alfred back...he could straddle him nice and good, hold the quarterback in place, teach him a thing or-

...and there were the hormones taking control. Focus. This wasn't Sex Ed., Christ...Arthur came back to reality, seeing that in his subconscious he'd eaten nearly all of his dinner, as had his guest. Alfred was saying something to his mother, but he'd tuned out so badly he hadn't an idea as to what.

"Oh, of course he can, so long as he gets to school on time. It might do him good to study with someone else, wouldn't it, Artie?"

...come again?

"Thank you, ma'am, I promise. No tardiness on my watch. Come on, Arthur. I'll help you get a bag packed up."

"...thanks..."

Bag for what? Arthur stood, gesturing Alfred to follow. Once they were halfway up the stairs, the punk spoke, a bit confused.

"Why am I packing up a bag?"

"Because you're staying the night at my place. It'd be better if you got away from your brother, right?"

. . .

They were spending the night together? Again? Would they be in the same bed? Oh God. Oh God help him, what the hell was he going to do? What if Alfred tried something? Oh...no, of course he wouldn't, but still. What if he tried something himself? He didn't trust himself recently, mostly when the porn under his bed stopped doing the trick a few months ago. He kept having thoughts and urges, which he supposed were normal for a guy his age, but still...

Oh...what the fuck. He wasn't going to jump Alfred because he wasn't going to jump Alfred. He wasn't a cock-seeking missile or something. Shit.

. . .

He pushed aside the wandering thought about whether the jock was bigger than him, because that wasn't fucking helping at all.

Arthur reached the room and told Alfred to sit. He packed quickly, just another quick concert tee and jeans...he'd just use Alfred's mother's foundation in the morning, he supposed. They were down and out and driving away just as quickly, with nothing more than a 'Love you, Mum, see you tomorrow' and 'Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Kirkland!'

"You never told me you wanted to be a pilot."

"You never told me you wanted to be an author."

"...not that much anymore."

Alfred let out a quiet whine as he drove, drumming his fingers.

"Why not? It was probably awesome! Do you have anything I could read of yours? What did you wanna write?"

"No, I scrapped it all. And...nothing important.

Erotic novels.

Arthur had wanted to write erotic novels.

Eroticism was the very last thing he wanted to talk to Alfred about, especially considering the fact they were soon to be sharing a bed for the second time today.

The world was just tempting him today.


	20. Comforters and Comforting

"It hurt, but only just a bit."

"Bull."

"...alright, fine, but it was nice enough to ignore."

Arthur sat back, crossing his arms. The two teenagers were currently hurtling at fifty-five miles an hour towards the driver's home. Alfred and Arthur were discussing the kiss they had shared before Colin had so rudely interrupted. The quarterback had brought the topic up quite eloquently, in Arthur's opinion ("So the tongue thing was...cool...").

"But was it okay? That little stud thing hasn't healed yet, and there was like...spit an-"

"It's fine, we don't need to dissect it any further. Good God."

That kiss was the least of Arthur's worries. No. Apparently he was staying over at Alfred's for the night. Luckily for him it was nearly seven; parental interaction was near minimal, but that only made it worse. Yes, he had a bag, and yes, he was prepared, but was he...prepared?

What if this was some sort of ruse? What if the second the light went out, Alfred threw his arms around him and said, 'Now that we're alone, the night is ours?' or...or 'Don't worry about the cold, baby, I'm your heater'?

. . .

Arthur almost laughed. No, that would not happen, mostly because a) Alfred wasn't a pretentious dick (he actually seemed like a decent, genuine guy), and b) Alfred wasn't a character in his old erotic novel drafts from freshman year.

Thank God he'd burned those papers.

Still, he couldn't help but feel nervous. This was all happening so fast.

"So Mom and Dad'll probably be watching CSI on the DVR. You won't need to worry about them. We'll head upstairs, I'll get a bed made up, you can go shower, and that's that. And we can actually study, if you want to study."

Arthur looked over at his boyfriend from the passenger seat and nodded. Make up a bed? So he'd be sleeping on the floor. Alright, that solved about half of his problems. They wouldn't be side by side through the night; no touching, no tension. Excellent.

However...

"That sounds well and good, but...ah..."

"Yeah?"

"...nothing...just...will you be able to get enough sleep for practice tomorrow? I don't want to be a distraction."

Arthur flinched as the jock laughed. So loud...

"Nah, man, you won't distract. It's sleeping. Aaaand we're here."

The truck pulled into the driveway, Alfred parking with a bit of a flair. That is to say, once the vehicle came to a complete stop, he swooped over to steal a kiss from the punk's lips. Arthur's face went scarlet as he began to shout.

"H-hey, don't just start things like that out of the blue!"

The pout Alfred suddenly got made him regret saying that, of course.

"Why not?"

"...because. We're right outside your house. And...well, last time wasn't as successful."

"...ah...r-right. My bad."

There was a small twinge of guilt as Arthur watched Alfred smile sadly. Damn it...well...no, this was for the best, for now. Both their families had enough on their plate as it was, especially his own. His mother, always busy. And Colin could just...ugh. The fact he knew about all this, their relationship, was already far too much for them as it was.

And now they had to worry about some bitch neither of them had ever talked to?

"Come on, you're probably cold."

Alfred's smile seemed a bit more natural now. The punk nodded as he hitched the bag over his shoulder and hopped out of the truck. He sent a smile to his boyfriend, trying to express his thoughts without actually saying them. Unfortunately, the jock wasn't even looking his way. Arthur sighed quietly, following him up the stoop and into the front door. After a quick, happy announcement from Alfred ("Artie's helpin' me study for Chem!") and an eyebrow raise from a very gruff father, the boys were ascending the stairs and moving into Alfred's room.

The second Arthur closed the door behind them, he was turned and pressed against it in a kiss. The punk gave a surprised muffle before taking his hands to Alfred's shoulders, pushing him back.

"Wh-...what was that fo-?"

He was silenced by another kiss, though this one was a bit more gentle. Arthur's eyes squeezed shut, and his fingers clutched into his boyfriend's shirt. Just as quickly as it had come about, it ended, and Alfred was smiling at him again, that same, small, sad look. He spoke softly, brushing aside a few strands of hair from Arthur's forehead.

"You. It was for you. You don't need to worry about Colin or Natalia, okay? We're both fine..."

He kissed the now cleared spot on his head, bringing himself back towards the bed.

"Go shower. I'll get the beds ready."

"...y-...y-yeah."

God, Arthur hadn't even had time to set his bag down yet; thank God he hadn't dropped it, not that there wasn't anything of value to drop. He left the room quickly, darting to an open door that was clearly the washroom. With a secure click of the lock, he sighed, turning to the shower behind him.

...well this should be interesting.

. . . .

Alfred looked at the array of four comforters he'd layered on the floor as a makeshift mattress, the pillow, the extra sheets. This would do just fine for him. He sighed, tossing himself back onto the cushy 'bed,' shutting his eyes.

Last time wasn't as successful.

...The last time had been when Colin saw them. Shit. God, could Alfred ever get anything right? He finally finds someone he's interested in, pursues him, and then nearly ruins his life within a week...both at home and possibly at school.

"Damn it."

He scowled and rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face in the sheets that smelled just faintly like Febreze and an old closet.

Alfred had never dated before, not like this. Neither had Arthur, but...damn, the poor guy could do with a better boyfriend. Maybe someone who liked the same things as him...actually...they didn't really have much in common at all. Did they? Maybe music, and movies, but...Arthur said he liked writing. Creative stuff. Alfred wanted to fly. Those weren't related in the slightest...

He opened his eyes just slightly, curling his fingers into the bed.

The jock wasn't sure if he wanted to know what Arthur thought about all this.

. . . .

. . .

He was bare.

He was naked.

Naked in Alfred's house.

Arthur didn't like it one bit.

The water was hot (good pressure they had here), and the washroom steamed up fairly quickly. He assessed his surroundings, unused to the layout. He assumed the bottle was the rinse. Alright then.

He lathered up quickly, just wanting out as soon as possible, before anything could occur, like slipping or thinking. Shampoo came next, so he reached out and popped a bottle cap, squeezed a good size gob and-

. . .

He recognized this smell. This was Alfred's product, wasn't it? Shit. This was going to be a very short shower, wasn't it?

Just...scrub and rinse and lather and wash and get it all done. Don't dwell on anything, like how he might look in a towel...combing his hair...sopping wet-

Gah. Fuck. Stop that. There was no need to think about Alfred like that, he wasn't some sex symbol. He wasn't there for Arthur to fantasize about in the shower...those...taut muscles...how might his chest look? Would he ever get to see it? God, he hoped so...and those legs...the quarterback had such nice, toned legs. And arms. And that hair. All of that, under a cascade of water, soapy and soaked...pressed against in a heated-

. . .

Alright, all done. Arthur switched off the water and nearly leaped out, snatching up a towel and hurrying on with getting his clothes back on before he had a chance to proceed with his near-wet-(day)dream.

...ugh, he was an idiot. There were far more important things to be thinking about, like how the fuck they were going to get out of this mess. He supposed it was something a good nights sleep could help solve (or at least make his headache go away), but he was more concerned with Alfred. Arthur was bullied enough as it was, so much that it hardly phased him anymore. Alfred...Alfred had a bigger role in society. Maybe in the whole town, for such stupid reasons. He played a game, and everyone loved him for it. The punk tried not to think about it bitterly, but it was true; Alfred hardly had to try when it came to being likable. Hell, he'd gotten Arthur to like him.

And now because of him, that most liked person could become a a victim?

He sighed defeatedly, opening the door and heading back to his boyfriend's room...who...looked as if he'd passed out.

"You alright?"

. . . .

Alfred flinched, springing up into a sitting position with a grin.

"Hell yeah! Why wouldn't I be? How was the shower."

"Fine, thanks."

Alfred didn't give away his expression as he wondered whether or not that was a blush on his boyfriend's cheeks. What was that all about?

"I gave you the softer blankets, so...yeah. It's all yours."

The jock patted his own bed, the mattress, as he looked to Arthur. It only seemed right, giving his guest the better bed. The actual bed. Besides, he was rather proud of this little pile he'd made.

...why did Arthur look so red? Had the water gotten too hot? God he hated when that happened...oh well, he seemed to be approaching and sitting on the bed okay, and hey, he was already covering up, so it was fine!

"What are you wearing?"

His eyes scanned over Arthur quickly. Weren't those the clothes he'd been in earlier?

"Did you not bring anything to change into?"

"I always sleep in my day clothes."

"...nah...no dude. Hang on."

Alfred got up from comfort and went to his drawers, pushing around fabrics until he found a pair of sweats and a tee shirt. He passed them off to the punk with a smile.

"This'll be much better, especially compared to those jeans. Might be a big, but at least it won't be tight."

He watched Arthur flick his eyes from the clothes to him before taking them gently.

"...don't look over here."

And then Arthur had scampered to one corner of the room, waiting for Alfred to look away. Alfred flushed slightly and did such, even going as far as putting a hand up to block any peripheral glances.

"Alright. You weren't kidding when you said they were big."

The jock turned, swallowing a small gasp almost instantly...here it was again. The word 'cute.' Arthur looked cute. That t-shirt looked just massive on him, and thank God the sweats had a tie-string. Otherwise...

"What are you looking at?"

"N-nothing!"

. . .

Alfred turned, hiding his blush as he jumped back down onto the sheets.

"I-I kinda wanna turn in early. Long day, ya know? Plus practice. We can study some other time. Night, Arthur."

He debated whether or not kissing him goodnight would be okay. After choosing against it, he leaned up to his desk, flicked the lamp switch, and the darkness came.

. . . .

...well that had been strange. He felt strange. Alfred's clothes...they practically engulfed him.

Arthur crawled into the bed, putting it away that he was in Alfred's clothes, and bed, and room, and house. All that was left was Alfred's arms and he'd be set for comfort or romance.

"...Alfred?"

"Hm?"

"Ah...is there...is there a reason why...did..."

He sat up, gathering up some courage.

They were in a relationship. And relationships were about expressing themselves.

...which was something Arthur had never been good at.

"I know your parents are downstairs, so I'm not saying we should...I appreciate the bed, it was very kind of you, but..."

Earlier had been so nice. Warm, sweet, and intimate. Arthur wasn't saying he wanted it again, but he certainly wasn't saying no to it. He watched Alfred lean up, propping himself up on his elbows.

"Uh...what are you saying?"

...fuck.

"I...why are you on the floor? This is your bed."

Even in the dark, the punk could see the jock's brilliant smile.

"You're my guest. And...and what kinda boyfriend would I be if I let you sleep on the cold, hard ground?"

"You're being dramatic."

"You're being cute."

Arthur froze, swallowing dryly as he huffed.

"I'm not cute, Alfred. I was asking you a question. And I gladly would've taken the floor, thank you very much. I'm not spoiled or something."

...why the hell was he chuckling? The punk stiffened, pulling the blankets closer to himself and glaring down at Alfred.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, I'll just answer your question; yes, you may come down here. Or I'll come up there. Whichever you prefer."

. . .

His face burned, huffing again.

"Damn you, you git."

. . .

"Get up here."

Arthur turned over immediately, facing the wall with a scowl. He could hear that stupid chuckle, and the sound of sheets moving, the creak of the bed, and suddenly an arm was over him, and a warmth was on his neck.

"Did you miss me, Artie?"

"Call me that again and you're getting kicked off."

More laughter, and he was being squeezed. Arthur sighed, smiling to himself as he shut his eyes. Oh yes...he preferred this much more than sleeping alone.

Warm, sweet, and intimate.

Maybe tonight he could forget all the shit. Just tonight.

Honestly, it would probably just get worse, but...maybe it would be alright. Alfred would probably come out of all this alright. As long as Alfred was okay, then Arthur could be okay...

...Yeah

Let's just keep Alfred safe.

It wasn't as if things could get worse for Arthur.

Not with his jock around.


	21. Confessions and Callouts

Her arms stretched towards the clear blue sky. Such a nice change from the rain they'd been getting lately. Now if only it were a bit warmer. And if the other girls on the squad would please stop muttering to each other.

"Probably fucked the coach to get on the squad."

"I heard she got implants when she was twelve."

Irnya never paid them much mind. Her mother always said that those who made fun of you were only reflecting on themselves. Which didn't make much sense. Most of them were very beautiful already...perhaps it was an inner problem. Cassandra never seemed to smile much, even though most would kill for her perfect complexion. Irnya sighed, through with her warm-up. Early practices were the norm this early in the season, and since the first game had been called off, that meant the cheer squad had more time to perfect their routine.

"Try not to hit yourself in the face, Z-cup."

Marilyn strolled by as everyone got into formation. Irnya let out another breath. Honestly, a Z? She'd been called F, H even L, but a Z-cup? That was just ridiculous. She was a 38-DD, with curves that her mother called 'full-figured.'

...which in this day and age, most youth decided meant 'fat.'

Yes, her arms were plump, and her stomach wasn't exactly flat, and her thighs? There hadn't been a gap since fifth grade. But it wasn't as if she was out of shape! Goodness, she was the bottom of the pyramid, she had to be strong, and she was! If there was a formation that required someone on someone's shoulder, Irnya was always the candidate for the holding.

It was a good system, and she enjoyed it. She loved herself, after all, took good care of her body. Her mother had large breasts, too, and her grandmother, and way before that. Healthy motherhood was in her blood.

So it didn't matter what the girls said.

. . .

The boys, however...

Ah...here they come...the football had early practice, too. It was about seven in the morning, classes didn't begin for about an hour. Each heavily padded and uniformed member of the team looked tired, some more than others. Except number 50. Alfred Jones.

Of all the boys, Iryna favored him most.

"Hey, babe, how about we go see a movie tonight?"

"No thank you..."

"Aw, come on Tyler, back off her, she's got a date with me. Right?"

"I...no, sorry."

"How about a little peek there, sweetie? We all need a little pick-me-up."

"Please go..."

All the confidence she carried shattered around the boys.

Girls were different. Girls said hurtful things, poked at you a little bit, but after awhile they stopped. It was useless to annoy someone who couldn't be annoyed, right? Boys though...the boys were relentless. They could do far more, say far worse things, and...never really stopped. It made Irnya tear up just a bit. Her brother had taught her how to throw a punch, how to fight (just in case), but there were other people around...and she didn't want to actually hurt anyone. Especially someone whom she had to see everyday or so.

"Guys come on, we gotta practice. Stop being assholes."

Irnya looked up sharply, knowing that the voice had come from Alfred, who was glowering at his teammates. Each of the boys scuttled away from her rather quickly, whereas Alfred approached, smiling sheepishly.

"Sorry. They can kinda be douchebags...you alright?"

"...y-yes, I'm fine...thank you."

She wiped her eyes and nodded quickly. Alfred was always so kind. This sort of thing happened far too often, and it was always Alfred who stopped it. She turned to the other girls, who looked away quickly. Pretending that they hadn't been watching the whole thing.

"If that happens again, tell me, okay?"

"...alright." Irnya smiled up at the blonde through his helmet. He opened his mouth, as if he were about to say something. Then he closed it, gave the bleachers a side-long glance and then smiled back at Irnya.

"Flip good, okay?"

And off he sped with his other players. What had that been all about? Did he have something to say?

...he hadn't been about to ask her out, had he?

She looked up to the bleachers, doing a small double-take as she caught a figure sitting in the shadows near the top row. Was that...? No. It couldn't be Arthur Kirkland. What on earth would he be doing here? It certainly looked like him. That coat looked far too big on him, though...

. . . .

...well that had been fun. That had been...really, really fun.

Arthur hated sports, but he certainly could enjoy the sight of Alfred working up a sweat, even if it was twenty fucking degrees outside. The jock's jacket certainly helped. Not only that, but he heavily approved of that uniform; it hugged his already nicely-shaped behind just perfectly.

There was also something breath-taking about that moment when the helmet came off and he shook his head to loosen his hair. How hard he was breathing, little things like that.

And he'd approached Irnya. He'd have to ask him how that had gone. It was Tuesday. They had Wednesday, Thursday, and then...

...God, he didn't even want to think about it.

He could, hardly focus in Spanish. Which was strange, considering he was focusing at all. Arthur sighed, counting the seconds on the clock. Just five...

"Alright, that's all for today. Please read pages 45-87 tonight. We're studying conjugation tomorrow."

Sorry Carriedo, that means no homework. Arthur gathered his things and bolted out of the classroom. Now to find Alfr-

"Oof!"

He ran headlong into a dark something, falling to floor and knocking whatever it was down, too. He looked up, seeing that it was Demitri. And...damn, he...what the hell? Demitri had cleaned up. He was wearing a crisp, black, button-up shirt, black pants that looked neat and wrinkle-free. His makeup seemed more deliberately applied, even and smooth, and...Jesus, was his hair slicked?

"Hey...Dem, what's-?

There were two index cards on the floor near Arthur's fallen bag, and they had hastily scribbled and scratched out writing on them. The goth snatched them up the second the punk laid his eyes on it, shuffling and sticking them back in his pocket.

"I apologize for running into you, my friend. I...the spirits and I are...I must go."

And the black-clad teen hurried off, leaving a ridiculously confused Arthur in the dust.

. . . .

"I wish we didn't have to meet like this..."

"I'm sorry, Alfred, but it has to do for now. Talk, we have five minutes."

The two had decided to meet up in the restroom whenever possible. They took different stalls and spoke through the walls; this way if someone walked in, they could shut up /and/ be visible. Alfred didn't like it at all, but it was for the best...

"I saw you spoke to her. How'd it go?"

Alfred gulped.

"Yeah. Uh...it went good. I mean...kinda...not..."

"Alfred"

"I'm sorry! She was kinda being hassled by a buncha guys, she was crying, it wasn't the best time, okay?"

"Fine, fine...dammit!"

Alfred felt the stall shake as Arthur must've pounded on it. He sighed, pressing his hand up to the wall's smooth, graffiti-covered surface. The word 'Faggot,' in blue high-lighter made him cringe.

"Hey...we'll figure it out, okay? Don't worry, Artie."

. . .

He heard a soft sigh.

"Don't call me that."

And then his boyfriend's hand reached under the stall, seeking attention. Alfred grinned and took it with his own, giving him a reassuring squeeze. To think, Arthur could be affectionate like this. Alfred would have never guessed.

"Nah, I think I'll-"

The creak of the door made them let go of each other like as if they'd been burned, growing deathly quiet as footsteps and voices echoed.

. . .

Damn it.

. . .

God damn it...

. . . .

Lunch was spent outside today. Just Arthur and Kiku...Dem was nowhere to be found. Kiku was as quiet as ever, and Arthur...

Arthur was in quite the funk over the restroom incident.

Da-ding.

'You look out of sorts, Arthur. Is everything alright?'

"Yes, Kiku...I'm fine, no need to worry."

Just the fact that his life might be over in three days. That's all.

...what the hell were they going to do? They couldn't even see each other half the time. Hell, he was afraid to text anyone other than Kiku. That would raises suspicion.

Da-ding.

'I will not pry further. I apologize.'

"No, no it's fine, Kiku, you're not-"

The outside doors burst open and a familiar clicking noise filled the air...oh. Perfect. The punk looked up and caught sight of the girl that was currently making his life a stressful hell. Her heels clacked loudly against the concrete, this day sporting a new dress with her hair up in a barrette. A black barrette, of course. He looked away, hoping she didn't notice him. There were more people now. Lunch must've been terrible today.

"Wait!

A voice broke through crowd, enough to make heads turn in confusion. A black figure was darting through and around the other bodies, straight towards Natalia, who narrowed her eyes as a boy stopped in front her, out of breath and...scared out of his mind?

"Oh God, Dem, no..."

Arthur mumbled to himself, debating whether or not to get up and stop his friend. What the hell was he doing? Nothing good, that was for fucking sure. He watched Demitri look up at her for a moment before fumbling in his pocket for the index cards the punk had seen earlier. They weren't that far away from Kiku and the punk, so Arthur heard every syllable. As did everyone else in the vicinity.

"...you...your eyes are like icy pools that hold wisdom and...f-fuck, wait."

Demitri put one card in front of the other, nodding. Completely missing the look on Natalia's face. Arthur watched, completely dumbfounded, his jaw dropped. Kiku's eyes were wide.

"Natalia, you are the one who gives my life a purpose...the...the spirits have guided me this far into my life, but now...I seek my own guidance. I seek you."

He flipped the cards, hands visibly trembling.

"Your eyes are like icy pools that hold wisdom under the surface...and your hair is...is the light in my dark. Will...you lead me from the abyss...and...a-and into your life?"

He hadn't looked up a single moment while reading. When Demitri did, his eyes met with Natalia's; her cold glare, disgusted expression, and scoff made his eyes widen.

"...are you fucking serious?"

Arthur jumped up as his friend was shoved to the ground, keeping himself from shouting.

"Right. Like I'd even think about going out with you. Freak."

The crowd snickered around at Demitri, who still appeared shaken and shocked. The index cards had fluttered to the ground, and Natalia's manicured nails picked them up to examine them.

"With shit like this, I'm surprised you haven't killed yourself yet. Go ahead and get it over with. Do me a favor."

She tore the cards and tossed them back down on the boy, clicking away. No one helped him up. Life kept on going. Arthur went over, offering his hand. Demitri didn't take it. He stood on his own, dusted himself off, and stared down for a moment. The wind caught the torn cards and scattered them away into the grass.

"...hey, Dem-"

"I'm going home."

The goth turned on a heel and headed straight for the parking lot. Kiku was up now, standing next to Arthur. The two sped to catch up. Dem's expression was blank, utterly lost.

"Don't...she's just..."

Really? Did Demitri have to have a crush on the one girl in this school who...oh God damn it.

"I am fine. Go on. Class will start soon."

He drew out his phone. Arthur presumed he was calling his uncle to come pick him up. The punk and fanatic looked to each other for a moment and walked away from their friend.

Da-ding.

'Will he be alright?'

"...I..."

And Arthur didn't answer. He wasn't sure how to.

"...text him tonight. Just talk to him, okay? I'm...I'll be somewhere and busy."

Kiku gave him a long look before shrugging and taking out his phone, walking away.

Arthur felt bad. Terrible. He didn't know which problem to handle first. Did that make him a bad person?

...Oh he was he kidding.

Arthur knew he was a terrible person.


	22. Texting and Touching

Da-ding.

. . .

. . .

Da-ding.

Da-ding.

The phone chime Arthur was trying to ignore finally made him in groan in submission, bringing the device from his pocket as he made his way to his car. The school day was over, thank Christ.

The quarterback he called his boyfriend was only a few paces behind him, acting casual. The two had strategized that they ought to distance themselves for awhile, lest they raise suspicion. Arthur didn't much care for it, but it was for the best. For now, anyway.

The punk flipped open his phone, eyes widening slightly. Two texts from Kiku, one from Alfred.

'Demitri wishes for me to tell you that he will not be in class tomorrow.'

'I am very worried for him.'

He skimmed the two messages quickly, shaking his head and making a small sound of frustration. God damn it, what had Dem been thinking, approaching Natalia like that? When did he even start feeling attracted to her? And how!? Sure, she was hot, but fuck, what if she'd actually said yes? There was only so much abuse a man could handle! Telling him to go off himself had been way over the line. If she wasn't a girl, Arthur would give her what-for.

Then Dem had just vanished, presumably for home. Arthur felt pretty bad, considering how he and his friend hadn't been getting along as of late, and now this on top of that, just...ugh.

Okay, now Alfred's message. A few thumb taps and here it was;

'U look nice 2day ;)'

. . .

And a few more thumb taps and Arthur's response was sent;

'Idiot.'

… Better add a heart to that.

Arthur pocketed his cell with a chuckle and slid into his car, fully intending on just breathing for a few hours once he got home. Too much shit had gone down for him to deal with today. With a turn of the keys and a shift of the gears, the punk was homeward bound. He could see Alfred in his rearview mirror, and the small wave the jock gave him made Arthur's heart skip a beat.

. . . .

We need to stay off the radar, so maybe we should lay low for awhile.

Alfred had hated, hated suggesting something like that, but he'd spoken without thinking, a trait he was very well known for. And unfortunately, Arthur had agreed.

He watched his boyfriend drive away alone, en route to a house with his dick-ish brother and no one to talk to. With a clench of his fist, Alfred decided he would be the one to talk to Arthur. No one could know about texts, right? Or hell, he could even call him!

. . .

Eh...it was a bit too soon to be calling each other. Maybe in a few weeks. Texts worked, though. Alfred jogged the rest of the way to his truck and sped out of the parking lot; the sooner he could talk to Arthur the better. It was the only way of making it up to him for all this nonsense going on. This whole blackmail...step-sibling bullshit they'd gotten caught up in was just ridiculous. As if Arthur hadn't had enough to deal with before. And poor Demitri! Holy hell, that had just been brutal… was there no one Natalia had any semblance of compassion toward?

Other than apparently Ivan...

Alfred shuddered at the thought as he parked in his driveway. He hopped down from the truck and sped to the door, saying his usual hello to his mother. Where was Matt? That question was a frequent one in the house, but today he was actually gone, or so the blonde could see. Huh. Maybe he was napping or something.

Into his room, onto his bed, phone in hand, Alfred was texting before he even came to a complete stop.

'Hey. U ok?'

Now for the waiting, the agonizing waiting. Arthur didn't have a iPhone or an Android, no, his was a flip-phone. Because apparently they still made those. There was no helpful indicator on whether or not his boyfriend had received or read his message. He just had to wait for a response.

'I'd be much better if you didn't mutilate the English language.'

Alfred sighed and grinned in relief. Thank God, he'd responded. He got to work, tapping away.

'Sorry, I won't do it again. :)'

'You say that now...was there a specific reason for texting me?'

'Nah, just wanted to talk. How are you?'

. . .

. . .

...must be a big message. Normally his waiting policy for a missed or forgotten message was five or ten minutes. Alfred contemplated sending another one (just a quick 'Hello?'), but then Arthur finally responded.

'Could be worse.'

'Could be a LOT worse.'

Alfred wondered whether or not he should ask about Demitri, or what they should do about Natalia and Irnya, or...or maybe if they could just go on another date this weekend. Maybe they were blowing this whole thing out of proportion.

...then again, this was Natalia.

'I feel stressed, Alfred.'

The jock made a pained face at his screen. He wished he could be with Arthur right now, hold him tight, maybe give him a kiss or two. He knew Arthur would just complain about being coddled, but there was just something about him. Alfred wanted to protect him at all costs, treat him nice and gentle, as if he were the most cherished china doll in the world. And hell, with all that makeup, he almost looked like one. He blamed his mother for all those lectures on how to treat a lady. Arthur wasn't a lady, but damn it, Alfred was going to be a gentleman towards him anyway.

'It's alright, Arthur. Just relax, everything'll be okay. Hero's promise. :)'

'What are you wearing?'

. . .

. . .

Excuse me?

Alfred stared at his phone with wide eyes and a blush that was spreading to the very tips of his ears. Had...no, he'd read that wrong right? Right, he...no, there it was. Maybe...he was misconstruing it? Yeah, that word.

'lol good one.'

'I'm not joking, Alfred. You've gotten me all hot and bothered. Tell me what you've got on."

. . .

This wasn't happening. Alfred laughed aloud nervously, unsure of what the hell he was supposed to do right now. Arthur wasn't actually looking to...but if he wasn't, then why the fuck would he ask!? Just to know? Like hell that ever happened! He didn't understand. They'd only been going out for a weeks. Had Arthur felt...oh god...for lack of a better word...hormonal this whole time? They wereboth at that sort of age. Had dating the jock made him realize just how many primal urges he'd been holding back?

...Alfred was both mildly flattered and utterly terrified. The former for being able to please Arthur that way and the second because good God above,what the fuck was he supposed to do!?

...respond, he supposed...

'Uh...my letterman, a white shirt, and blue jeans...and boxers. And my glasses'

'You've got your coat on indoors? Why don't you take it off?'

. . .

Alfred realized that Arthur couldn't see him, and that he could just say that he'd taken it off, but with a quiet breath, the letterman was taken off. He returned to the phone, mind reeling at this incredibly sudden turn of events.

'It's off.'

'Aren't you going to ask me to take something off now?'

...oooh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, he was in to deep now. Alfred's panic button had been pressed and a mental breakdown was ensuing. He took several breaths, failing to calm down as he sent another text.

'Arthur, are you feeling alright? You can cut it out now.'

'Alfred, I'm not joking, please. I need you.'

I need you.

. . .

Please. I need you.

. . .

It was as if Alfred's thumbs were on autopilot, a glaze going over any common sense his mind had right now. Arthur needed him...he was aching, hurting...and he needed his boyfriend to fix it.

'How about your shirt?'

'It's already off. I'm in my boxers. I wish you were here.'

The jock blushed, all sorts of daydreams and images whizzing through his head. Arthur was in his room, lying on the bed in nothing but black boxers, legs just slightly open and his arms above his head. The underwear was tented, and Arthur was squirming with discomfort, making small gasps and whines, small 'Alfred's and 'please's escaping from his lips. His red hair stuck out against the comforters, and his pale, untouched, freckled skin looked so inviting, pleading to be caressed, his quivering lips screaming to be kissed...and then there were his eyes. Arthur's green eyes, wide and filled with lust, instinct, desire, staring directly into Alfreds, wanting him, hypnotizing him.

"Please, Alfred, I need you."

'It's okay, babe. I'll help.'

. . . .

The Kirkland home was filled with the sound of screaming and banging, resonating from the youngest son, Arthur. The punk's fist collided over and over with the bathroom door, his voice growing more and more desperate with every syllable.

"I'm going to fucking kill you, give me back my fucking phone!"

"I'll give it back when Mum gets home, this is way too much fun, Artie!"

Alfred had started texting Arthur as the punk had gotten home, and no sooner had he started the conversation had Colin jumped him and snatched the device away, locking himself in the family bathroom. Arthur was experiencing pure fear and panic. What could he be saying to Alfred right now!? Something embarrassing? Hurtful insults? Oh God, he felt like he was going to vomit.

"Colin, I'm not fucking around, please, I'll do anything!"

"Nothing you could do for me could be any better than this, trust me."

"Open up, God damn it!"

The minutes felt like hours. Arthur's voice was growing raw and his fists were turning red. Every so often he'd hear a chuckle or even full-out laughter from behind the door. Each second brought him deeper and deeper into an abyss.

. . .

Finally, the door opened. Colin strode out and tossed the phone to his younger brother, smirking as if he were proud. He winked.

"You're in for it."

Arthur hadn't even had time to react before Colin reached his own bedroom, shutting and locking it behind him. The punk stood frozen in the hallway, staring at the phone before bolting to his bedroom, locking it behind him, and flipping the cell open, rapidly clicking until he reached his inbox and outbox.

. . .

. . .

. . .

The room was spinning. It was a slow spin, a very slow, disorienting spiral, but it was a spin. Was it also shifting? Yes, Arthur believed his bedroom was just melting altogether. He couldn't feel his legs, numbness spreading down from his thighs to his ankles. His face was ash white at first, but then a flushed red began to spread across his cheeks, maybe even across his whole body. He decided standing was no longer a safe option and more or less collapsed onto his bed, sitting up and never taking his eyes off his phone. Each message clicked and read made him more weak, more filled with sheer humiliation. These outgoing messages didn't even sound like him...but the messages he'd received...

'I'm with you, Arthur.'

'You're almost there, babe.'

'I want to kiss you.'

'I want to touch you.'

'I need you, too, Arthur.'

. . .

Arthur hated Colin. There wasn't a single part of him that found any sort of compassion or relation to his brother, and he sincerely wished death upon him. He hated him more than anything in the world. He hated how he treated him, how he humiliated him. How he'd humiliated him today.

However, the most humiliating part of it all was that the more he read the texts, the warmer the room seemed to get. The more he read, the more rapid his breathing became. The more he read, the more uncomfortable he felt in the jeans he had on.

Arthur stood from the bed and scrambled to his dresser, opening the bottom drawer in search of a small bottle of pump lotion.

If there was anyone he hated more than Colin right now, it was himself.


End file.
